What Was and What Might Have Been
by Dinogeek
Summary: For all he knows other people's secrets, Sherlock doesn't have too many of his own, and the ones he does have, he makes sure stay buried deep, and never come to the surface. So what'll he do, when an old friend and a new crime scene threaten to drag one of them out into the light? No romance. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Greetings. I was debating with myself over whether or not to start a new story on the first day of Finals Week, but I realized that if I don't have something to do to distract myself things are gonna start getting killed. And by 'things' I mean 'people'. And I'd be doing the killing. So, yeah... If I sound a little loopy right now, that's because it's one a.m. and I'm still awake, so I should probably get to sleep after I post this. And stop rambling inanely in the Author's Note. That might help too. I'm going to shut up now. Enjoy! ^-^**

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><p>Rebecca slipped easily over the flood barrier and walked along the riverbank, camera poised. The last week's torrential rain had, at least for a brief time, finally simmered down. The site was still too wet to do any digging at, though. She smiled to herself at the continuity of it; it used to be an ocean, and now that it was on dry land it was too wet to do anything with. Well, at least the fresh mud in the bank would give them good reference pictures. And she was getting bored with man-made places, with seeing how much had changed since the last time she'd been there; twelve years ago her dad was restationed, and it was back to Texas with them. Not that she didn't like Texas. She liked it quite a lot, but she <em>didn't<em> like unfinished business, and that was what she'd left behind. She shook her head and told herself she was being stupid; it was twelve years back, over and finished with… nothing to be done about it now.

She cast off the dark feelings and looked at the intricate ripple patterns of the mud. The river couldn't have been flowing more than ten miles an hour here, a lull in the speed it built up passing around the bank's curve. She knelt down, careful not to actually touch the mud with her knees. After years of practice, the patterns of the river were easy to read. Swift here, sluggish there, and a myriad of other details, too many for one person to find. Rebecca closed her eyes and pictured the land as it was; the image came naturally to her. It always had, ever since she was young, which had made it easy in graduate school. It was a whole lot less work for her than it was for the others. She opened her eyes and stood back up. She looked further down the bank, away from the direction she'd come, and spotted something unusual. She gave it a closer look and realized what it was.

"Ah, shit." She ran over. It was a body. She sighed. "Please be alive, dude. It would be so much cooler if you were." She knelt down next to him, careful not to disturb the scene as it was. Just like she would on a dig, except this was no dig. She pressed two fingers to his neck, checking for an unlikely pulse. There was none; the man was dead. She closed her eyes for a brief second, then stood back up straight and pulled out her cell phone. The different emergency number came back to her naturally, another reminder of matters not cleared up.

"Hello? Yeah, I found a dead guy. Down by the river."

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><p>The Scotland Yard crew didn't have a whole lot to do on Thursday evenings. Not that they minded. They still got paid and all that, but without the murders and curb crawlers and drunken bar fights. It had become a habit among them in their down time to take a look at who was getting released soon. It was listed in the database and quite honestly some of the things people got themselves locked up for were beyond hilarious. A sergeant was scrolling through the list, calling out some of the more amusing ones.<p>

"Only five this week, I guess we're really holding onto 'em," she reported. "Let's see what we've got…" She snorted. "Here's one who spent the night for peeing in a public fountain. Oh, and this guy got into a drunken bar fight. And hey, here's the one he fought with… Oh, this one's serious. Damn, they should keep him in longer, that's ridiculous. Oh, and last but not least, this fellow got caught vandalizing a tractor. So that's it, then." The sergeant was looking through next week's significantly longer lineup when her phone rang. She looked at it in surprise; anything larger than petty crime was unusual at this time of the week, especially with the weather they'd been having. She picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Where? Okay, I'll tell the inspector." She wrote down a list of facts on a sheet of paper and carried them over to an office.

"Inspector?" She knocked on the door and Lestrade looked up at her. "We've got a suspicious death down on the river bank. Just called in." Lestrade stood up to leave.

"Do we know the name?" he asked.

"Not yet, but it's a male, mid-thirties, and it looks like he might have drowned. Some tourist found him when there was a break in the rain." Lestrade nodded.

"Go get Donovan, tell her to meet me there. Let's hope we can clear this up quick, before the rain starts again."

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><p>John stared up at the ceiling from his position on the couch. Good Lord, but he wanted to take a nap. Except he couldn't, he had work in an hour. Plus he was fairly sure that if left to his own devices, Sherlock would have the whole flat down in thirty minutes. He had been even more restless than he usually was when caseless, and John was starting to worry about him. There was something not right about it; something else was getting under the detective's skin, and John couldn't tell what it was, and that was getting under <em>his<em> skin. He sighed to himself, rolled off of the couch, and went to change clothes and shower. Sherlock was in the kitchen meddling with chemicals he probably shouldn't have been able to even purchase, but John wasn't going to ask questions he didn't want to know the answer to.

He was halfway through changing when Sherlock's phone rang. Well, that put a shower out of the question, but then again he could always just go outside and get one naturally. He headed back down the stairs.

"Who was that?"

"Lestrade." No surprises there. "They found a body on the riverbank. It looks like a drowning." John frowned. They didn't usually call Sherlock for natural-causes deaths. Still, he wasn't complaining; the sooner Sherlock got a case, the better. Hopefully this would distract him from whatever was bothering him so much.

"If it's just a drowning what do they want you go there for? Is there something different about this one?" It wouldn't be a huge surprise if the guy_ had_ drowned. With the weather like it had been that last week or so and the river flooding, it was only a matter of time before someone tempted fate one too many times.

"They don't know yet." Sherlock grabbed his coat and swept toward the door. John followed him into the wet street and they hailed a cab. There was finally a break in the rain, but no one knew for how long. "Lestrade called me because they need to get finished as fast as possible before the rain picks up again."

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><p>The dead man had yet to be identified. He had no wallet, no fingerprints in the system, and his cell battery had been thoroughly fried by the river water. They kept him in exactly the same position as they found him, to avoid contamination until Sherlock got there. Sally wasn't happy about his impending presence, and Rebecca found herself privy to a very unusual conversation.<p>

"Sir, we don't need him!"

"Yes we do, Sergeant, it's my crime scene and I'll decide whether or not to bring him in on it."

"But you know the Freak'll just get here and act like we're wasting his time." Rebecca arched an eyebrow. That seemed a little cold. Whoever this fellow was, the sergeant obviously didn't think very highly of him. She feigned disinterest when Lestrade turned to her; the general rule in her family was that you could pay as much unashamed interest in another person's conversation as you wanted as long as you pretended otherwise when they were looking.

"So what exactly were you doing walking along a flooded riverbank?" he asked her. She shrugged casually.

"Taking pictures." She considered that explanation enough, and didn't bother to elaborate further.

"Taking pictures? Of what?"

"The riverbank; I was looking for patterns in the sediment, for comparisons." Lestrade was wondering why she would need pictures of dirt, but he was distracted by a small bit of commotion up ahead. Sherlock and John had arrived, and as per usual, Sherlock and Sally were snipping at each other. Honestly, it was ridiculous how they deliberately baited each other, but Lestrade could only suppose that they didn't mind if they kept on doing it. Rebecca saw his eye roll and grinned at him.

"What's up, Inspector?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Nothing, really, it's just those two. The tall one and Donovan don't get along very well… or at all, really." Rebecca laughed at his words.

"I presume that's the fellow you two were arguing about earlier?" Lestrade rolled his eyes again.

"I knew you were listening to us." The taller one, finished with his argument, came toward them swiftly, and Rebecca gave him a look-over and frowned. He seemed familiar… She just about felt her heart stop.

"Holy shit…"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Yay, it's a chapter 2. You wanna know why? Because finals week is over. Fuck yeah. :D Now I just have one more test and then I'm off for Christmas Break. This chapter's a little shorter than the first one, but that's kind of because it's in an odd spot, so hopefully chapter 3'll be longer. Actually, I'm nearly done with it now, so hopefully I should have it up Monday. Also, it should be fairly obvious, but the stuff in italics near the middle is set in the past. But until then, without further ado, I present to you- CHAPTER TWO! ^-^**

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><p>Lestrade did a double take at her sudden exclamation. She glanced at him and noticed his startled reaction.<p>

"Sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to swear like that, it's just… It's nothing important." She wondered if he would remember her after all this time. He probably would; he wasn't the forgetting type, never had been. She shook her head to herself and sighed, still surprised. He didn't notice her as he came up, used to going straight to the body and ignoring the witnesses, and more or less everyone else.

"Name?" he asked, not wasting any time.

"None yet," Lestrade responded. "All we can guess is that he's in his mid-thirties. We don't know how long he's been here or what the specific cause of death was, but we're guessing that he's been…" Rebecca missed the rest of what he said as a thought struck her. She stared intensely at the mud patterns, trying to estimate how fast the river had been flowing in that area. When she thought she had it determined, she spoke up.

"Actually, I might be able to help you with some of that." Lestrade turned to look at her, surprised that she'd spoken. Sherlock seemed to freeze stiff, and from his position John could practically see the wheels of his brain turning.

"Help us with what?" Lestrade asked. He didn't sound too trusting in her abilities, a reasonable opinion since she was neither a cop nor a forensic scientist.

"With how long he's been here. I maybe could tell you that, if you give me a minute to work it out." Rebecca wasn't brash, but she was confident, and didn't seem to notice the odd collection of reactions she had gotten from that sentence, paying attention instead to the ground beneath her feet. Judging from the patterns in the sediment, the river wasn't flowing too fast here, so if it had covered him to… She nodded to herself and straightened back up. Sherlock straightened up like a rocket and turned to face her.

"Rebecca." She smiled at him.

"I was wondering when you'd recognize me. Damn, I missed you. It's good to see you again, that poor fellow excluded." She tilted her head toward the body. The others scattered around the crime scene looked on open-mouthed at the two of them. Sherlock looked on the verge of saying something, but then seemed to decide against it. Instead, he opted to return to the matter at hand.

"What do you need to know?" _That_ might have startled the others there even more then Rebecca saying she missed him. It was an extremely rare person that Sherlock Holmes would accept help from. Rebecca looked around.

"I need to measure how deep the dirt built up around him is. If I can figure that out I can tell you about how long he's been there." Sherlock nodded, as if it made absolute sense to him, but Lestrade was understandably reluctant to let a perfect stranger near an active crime scene.

"Hang on a minute, what are you doing? And who are you?" Rebecca smiled amiably at him.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I forgot to introduce myself, my name's Rebecca Taylor." She knelt down lightly in front of the body, careful not to touch anything unnecessarily. She pulled a small six-inch ruler out of her pocket and stuck it in the mud next to the body, frowning as she contemplated the result. Lestrade spoke again.

"Hold on, what are you doing with that?" Sherlock cut in.

"It's alright, Lestrade, she knows what she's doing. It's her job, unless you changed your mind?" He directed the last part of that to Rebecca, who shook her head.

"Nope, same as ever. That's why I'm here actually, but the rain's been stopping us from digging. Still, it ain't like the site's going anywhere."

"What do you do, exactly?" John piped up. Rebecca straightened and turned to face them.

"Marine vertebrate paleontology." She nodded her head at Sherlock. "He was the only one who could ever pronounce it when we were little. Your guy's been here for four to six hours, and also, he was murdered."

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><p><em>They were seven when they first met. Beck's father was in the Air Force, and had recently been restationed to England, at Bentwaters Air Force Base. She was new to his primary school and he'd never seen her before. Their class had gone on a field trip to a university, one of those things where they tried to encourage them but just end up scaring them about what's coming up. Sherlock had sat alone, as usual, but that time Rebecca had come up and sat next to him.<em>

_"So where do you want to go when you get bigger?" she had asked him. He shrugged. At that point he hadn't really been paying much attention to the future. _

_"What do you want to do?" he asked. It was mostly to be polite; that was the age where he still paid any kind of attention to manners. To his surprise, Rebecca smiled brightly and announced,_

_"I'm going to be a paleontologist." Sherlock was decently surprised._

_"That's very interesting. I've read some books about paleontology." It was Rebecca's turn to look surprised._

_"Really? Neat! It's cool that you know what that is, most people can't even pronounce it." Her face took on a scowl, like she was thoroughly irritated the concept. "My name's Rebecca Taylor, but people call me Beck. What's your name?"_

_"Sherlock Holmes. It's nice to meet you." He held out his hand to shake like his parents had taught him, only halfway expecting her to actually take it. To his surprise, however, she shook in return._

_"It's nice to meet you too, Sherlock._

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><p>Lestrade's reaction to Beck's pronouncement was even more startled than his reaction to her sudden aid at the crime scene. "How could you possibly know that?" Beck shrugged.<p>

"Well, as to how long he's been here, the striations in the riverbed indicate that the water was only moving about ten miles an hour in this area, and combined with the amount of dirt starting to build up around him, he couldn't have been here more than six hours or less than four. And I can tell he was murdered by his pose. There's no disturbance in the sediment around his body and the highest the river was in this area was three feet." She pointed to the flood barriers, which still showed a distinct water line. "He wasn't struggling when he hit the water, or even moving at all. So more than likely he was dead before he hit the water, and that means that somebody threw him in." Lestrade listened to her explanation open-mouthed and then turned to Sherlock.

"She really does know you, doesn't she?" Sherlock gave him a thin smile. "Okay, if he was murdered, we need to find out who he is _now_. If it starts raining again, how long will we have before the river gets back up here?" Rebecca answered him again.

"Depends on how hard it's falling. Could be anywhere from ten minutes to forty." He nodded.

"Right then, Sherlock, you look at the body, the rest of you help with the crime scene." As if on cue, the rain began to patter down again, but it was only a light drizzle. Sherlock knelt down in front of the body and began his scan. Not an outdoorsman, but not out of shape. So, he took care of himself. No tan, no hair gel, he didn't have a job he had to present an appearance for. Sherlock pulled the man's busted cell phone out of his pocket. There were scratches on the back and keypad, as well as a crayon mark near the bottom corner. He had a kid, at least one, possibly more, but no wedding ring, so probably his girlfriend's children. Just an ordinary middle-management family man. So why would somebody kill him and throw his body into the Thames?

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><p><strong>Also, I feel I should as, just as a side note, you lot should totally review. Yeah. ^-^<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Poke, review, poke, review, poke, review, I can do this all day, don't you doubt me, okay I'll shut up now. Hello and welcome to chapter three, I hope you enjoy it. :) I should have plenty of time to write because I'm on Christmas break now and I have less than nothing to do, so if you think I'm going too slow, by all means tell me to speed the hell up. I will listen. To anything. So y'all should review. ^-^**

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><p>John stared at Rebecca with interest. Sherlock had mentioned one or two times a friend that he'd had growing up, but this was the first John had ever actually seen of her. She was of average height, but thin, and looked more built for speed than strength. She had the same habit as Sherlock of staring off into the distance, like she was seeing something no one else could. John had seen her face when she'd first caught sight of Sherlock, and he could have sworn that there was a tinge of sadness mixed in with the astonishment. That coupled with Sherlock's reaction, like he'd been expecting to never see her again, made John wonder what had happened the last time they'd met; he supposed it would come out with time, but then again, Sherlock was notorious for holding onto information as tight as he could. He might well never say a word about it. John shook his head to himself and cast the matter out of his mind, focusing on the dead body.<p>

He had no form of identification and so no name yet. John crouched down in front of the John Doe and looked for any possible indicators of how he had died. He had small bruises and cuts on his hands, and larger bruises on his elbow and left temple, all several days old and from well before he died. He had been in a fistfight with somebody before he was killed, that much was certain, but there were no major injuries to his limbs or torso. There was no petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, so no strangulation. John felt his head up around his hairline, and sure enough, on the right side of his head, where it was covered by sand, was a major skull fracture.

"What have you got, John?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he got into a fistfight with somebody before he died, but judging from the bruising it was at least a week ago. He was killed by a blow to the head, on the upper right side. You were right, Rebecca, he didn't drown. He was definitely murdered."

They processed the crime scene as fast as they could without doing anything wrong, and transported the John Doe to the St. Bartholomew's Hospital morgue. There was still no name on him and nobody reported him missing until almost six thirty that evening, three hours after his body was discovered.

"His name is Thomas Howard, forty-one, from Manchester. His girlfriend says that he was supposed to come back from work at six, but when he didn't show up or answer his phone she called the police. She's coming in to identify the body, we can talk to her then," Lestrade informed them.

Tara Sloan, Thomas' girlfriend, was a diminutive woman with brown hair. When she arrived to I.D. the body, she was visibly upset. She had brought two children of about three or four with her, a boy and a girl, who were blissfully oblivious to the true purpose of their visit.

"I'm sorry, it was so sudden, I couldn't find anyone to watch them, and-" She sounded confused, like she barely knew how to talk, and Beck cut in to help her.

"It's alright, I can watch them if you want me to." She smiled gently at Tara, who looked relieved and nodded. She bent down to speak to the children.

"Alright Jeff, Sarah, I need you to stay with this lady while I go and help the police with something. I'll be back in a few minutes, understand?" The kids nodded, barely paying attention with so much going on around them, and Beck smiled at them.

"Hello you two, my name's Rebecca," she told them. "I'm going to watch you for a bit while your mama's gone. Y'all want to play a game?" The children agreed eagerly, and Beck sat with them on the floor, playing 'guess the animal'. John couldn't help but smile at them; Rebecca seemed to have a natural way with kids, making it look as if there were nothing unusual about sitting on the floor of Scotland Yard playing guessing games. Sherlock was reading through Thomas Howard's case file, what little they knew. Middle management at a small business in central London (just as he'd thought), no criminal record to speak of, and the company had no violations of any kind. All in all, there was no obvious reason for anyone to murder him. They'd have to wait for the pathology and autopsy reports until Molly could get through, but there were no indicators that he'd been drugged or poisoned. Sherlock sighed and scowled at the report. This one was going to fight them every step of the way, he could tell.

"So is Rebecca the friend you mentioned to me a couple times?" John's voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts, and he turned to look at the smaller man.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, we knew each other years ago, back when we were still in school. Her father was in the Air Force, so they moved when he got restationed twelve years ago."

"Presumably somewhere in the south, judging by her accent," John joked. Beck had a rather strong Texas drawl that stood out like a sore thumb in England, but Sherlock shook his head, giving a small grin back.

"No, she's always had that. I knew her for almost ten years, and she never even came close to losing it; actually, she kept it deliberately. Kept saying it wasn't wierd where she came from."

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><p><em>"So that's what I want to do, but what about you?" she asked him, her accent pushing the last two words together so that the t and the y combined into a 'ch' sound. Sherlock frowned at the table.<em>

_"I'm not really sure right now; but I'm only seven, I have time. You talk strangely. Where are you from?" She laughed at his comment._

_"I'm from Texas!" she announced proudly. "But my daddy's in the Air Force, so we moved here a few weeks ago, 'cause he got restationed. And I only talk funny here, there's a lot of people that sound like me back home. Are you from around here or somewhere else?" Sherlock stared at her, wide eyed; man, could she talk fast. She'd practically said that whole thing in one breath. _

_"I'm from this area. My house is out on the edge of town." Sherlock didn't elaborate; his father didn't like guests unless it was absolutely necessary, and Sherlock didn't have any friends to bring over anyway._

_"Oh, that's cool. My house is outside of town, out by the base, but it's not actually on it, though. Not much of a walk from the west side of town, actually. You should come over some time."_

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><p>Sherlock's attention returned to the present, and he realized that he'd spent the last thirty seconds staring off into space. Over on the other side of the floor, some stumbling drunk was being released from a one-night stint, and looked like he still had the hangover to prove it. Sherlock's thoughts turned inward again, and he shifted restlessly, trying to cast them off; a battle he had been losing for the last couple of days.<p>

John watched Sherlock with concern. Something was definitely wrong with him, and John wished he would just tell him _what_. Even as he watched, Sherlock's face darkened and his eyebrows drew together, and he shifted around like he couldn't get settled. John bit the inside of his cheek and looked away abruptly as Sherlock turned, trying to make it look as if he'd been paying no attention.

Tara returned from the identification, crying hard. Lestrade looked at the two men and simply nodded before he led her into his office to calm down. Rebecca looked sad, but shook off the look and returned her attention to Jeff and Sarah, trying to keep them calm and happy. Sherlock and John followed Lestrade to his office to interview Tara.

"Before he died, did he seem… nervous, or distracted?" Lestrade asked. She shook her head.

"Not that day specifically, but he'd been upset about something for a couple of weeks, and he wouldn't tell me what was wrong when I asked. He got into a fight with someone."

"Do you know who?" She shook her head again, her crying starting to pick up steam. "Had you been having any kind of financial trouble, or any threats?"

"No, his job was going fine, and so is mine. If anyone threatened him, he certainly didn't tell me about it." Lestrade nodded slowly, then decided to cut her a break, saying,

"Okay, that's all we need to know for now, we'll call you in if we need anything more." Tara buried her face in her hands, and Lestrade looked at the two men and gestured with his head toward the hallway. "So, that's not a lot to go on. We don't know who he was fighting with, we don't know why anyone would want to kill him, and we don't even know _when_ he died, just when he was left there." The three considered the bleak outlook at this stage of the game before John broke the silence, arching his eyebrows.

"So, where do we start first, then?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hahaha, you know what I like? Having more reviews than I do chapters. Now there's nothing I can do about that, but you lot on the other hand... So, hopefully I'll be able to update one last time before Christmas, but if I don't manage it, Merry Christmas, or Merry Insert-your-holiday-here. Either way, I hope you enjoy it. :) And I hope you enjoy this. Because things are about unpleasant. **

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><p>There was no report filed for Thomas' fistfight; whoever he'd brawled with, no one had called the police about it. Before the clash, he had been going out for a drink at a bar three streets away from his house. When asked, the bartender could remember only that he had been fighting with another man of about his age and build.<p>

"He was actually a bit larger than him." The bartender nodded to Thomas' picture. "That one had some guts going after him."

"So Thomas started the fight?" Lestrade asked the man, who nodded.

"Yeah, and he won it too. Had quick fists, that one. Don't know what it was over though, they kept that bit to themselves." The bartender could tell them nothing more, but directed them to the patron who had done his best to patch up the two men afterwards.

"Yeah, that one came to me," he told them. "Him and the fellow he threw down with. I didn't catch his full name, the other guy's, but Tommy called him Russell. Don't know if it was first or last, though."

"Did it seem like they knew each other before that, or was it just a random fight?" Lestrade asked him.

"Oh, they definitely knew each other. Tommy came in looking for him, that's how I knew the other guy's last name. I didn't know who he was looking for, but obviously somebody else did, they certainly found each other." Lestrade turned to Sherlock and John.

"We need to find out who else was at that bar. Somebody there had to have pointed out this Russell fellow to him. We figure out who, we figure out who Howard was fighting with."

That did not prove to be an easy task. The bar had been unusually crowded that night, and most people had gotten a little too enthusiastic in their drinking to remember what planet they lived on by the time the night had wound down. Finally though, they had managed to track down the person who had told Howard where to find the mystery man.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember that. I think the fellow's name was Seth Russell. I knew him by sight so I pointed him out. Of course, if I'd known how they were going to end up dealing with each other I probably would've feigned ignorance."

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><p>Seth Russell lived in a modest-size house in a suburb of South London. Two boys about eight and ten were playing with each other in the front yard, which was neatly trimmed. A small garden sat in front of the sitting room window. It certainly didn't have the outward appearance of a place one would expect bar fighters to come from, but then everyone had to have a hobby. Russell was indeed a good few inches taller than Thomas Howard had been, nearly the same height as Sherlock, and significantly more muscular.<p>

"Yeah, we fought. I lost. We didn't see too much of each other after that. Hard feelings, you know?"

"How hard were those feelings, exactly?" Lestrade asked. "And if you don't mind my asking, what were you two fighting about?" Russell shrugged.

"Nothing major. He'd heard from somewhere that I'd been insulting him and felt he had to avenge his honor, I guess. Like I said, we kept our distance from each other after that; but that fight was a week ago. Why are you asking about it now?"

"Because he's dead, Mr. Russell." Russell's eyes widened at Lestrade's bluntness, but the other man didn't seem to care. Something about Seth Russell really got under his skin, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "And you got into a very heated fist fight with him one week before he was killed." Russell's face darkened.

"Well I didn't kill him if that's what you're wondering about. We fought, I lost, we went our separate ways; I didn't hunt him down looking for revenge or anything like that. I'll admit I wasn't happy when he started wailing on me in the middle of the pub but I got over it and so did he."

"Well how did you know he got over it if he didn't speak to you after that? And what were you insulting him over that he got so upset about?" Russell looked surprised for a split second before he recovered his composure.

"I work in the same office as that chick he was dating, what's her name… Tara. We spoke to each other a bit. She was apologizing for him and she said something about how he was fine with it now. I hadn't really been saying anything about him; I don't know who he heard that from." They got nothing else useful out of Seth Russell, so they left him be and went back to the station. Lestrade sighed in irritation.

"So, there's the only lead gone bust. So far as we can tell, Thomas Howard had no enemies, no financial or relationship problems, and by and large never got into trouble of any kind."

The results had come back from the lab. Howard hadn't been poisoned or drugged, there wasn't even any alcohol in his system, and he had, as John had suspected, been killed by a single strong blow to the back and upper right side of his skull. "Did you get anything useful from the company he was working for?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. He was hardly ever even late to work, let alone causing trouble. The girlfriend works for a business three or four streets away and we've confirmed that Seth Russell does work there, on the same floor as her. We haven't asked her how well Russell and Howard might have known each other. We were going to check their home next, see if Howard might have hidden anything there."

The case was proving itself to be exceedingly difficult. Not that it was any easier when they were swimming with suspects, but it was certainly just as hard when they had less than nothing to go on. Thomas Howard was just an ordinary man, nothing more or less. He had no enemies, did nothing illegal, and kept his nose out of trouble; all in all, he was the least likely person one would expect to find murdered and dumped in the river.

"Yeah, I know Seth; not very well, though. He and Tommy never did get along, so they kind of mutually avoided each other. I don't know what started it, he never did tell me."

"Russell said that someone told Thomas he'd been insulting him. Do you know who?" Tara thought for a second, than nodded.

"If anybody did, it was probably Nathan Harris, he works in IT. He and Tommy got on really well when they met each other." They found nothing of note on his work computer or laptop, just a small mountain of generic business files that raised nothing suspicious, so they left to track down Nathan Harris.

"Russell says he wasn't really saying anything about Thomas, so if Harris was his friend, why would he lie to him?" Lestrade wondered out loud. Sherlock shrugged.

"Russell could be lying. Or Harris might have overheard something and taken it out of context. Or it might have been somebody else entirely." Harris didn't speak to them for very long, being occupied with a month's worth of computer issues from various people, almost all of which amounted to 'didn't plug it in' or 'turn it off then turn it back on'. However, he was able to tell them that he had in fact been the one who told Howard Russell had been badmouthing him.

"Because he was. Saying all sorts of things about him and how he was raising his kids. I don't know why he lied to you about that, he was being pretty plain and open about it when he was at the office."

"Most people seem to think there was some kind of bad blood in between them," Sherlock cut in. "Did you ever hear what that was all about?" Harris shook his head.

"Nah, the only thing Tommy ever came to me for was computer advice. He wanted to know how to back up a file on his laptop; it only took a couple seconds."

"What was the file about?"

"I don't know, I just backed it up and kept my eyes to myself." Harris rushed off, occupied with the rare computer problem that actually posed a problem, leaving the three men standing in the office hall. Silently, all three reflected on the most recent development. Lestrade gave John an exasperated look that the other man returned, while Sherlock stared off into the distance, his brain racing its way through the facts.

"So we know that Russell was lying about badmouthing Howard, but what's this about a file he wanted to back up?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock snapped out of thought and turned back to him.

"We need to go back to his house and find that file. Whatever it is, that might be what he was killed for."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Greetings and salutations, and I hope y'all had a wonderful Christmas. :) I keep forgetting to say this, because the poles will reverse before it's true, but I don't own any of this. At all. Not even a little. And I don't have enough money to be worth suing, if somebody who does own this is reading. So don't bother. But do bother to review, because it feeds my soul and makes me write faster. ^-^**

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><p>The thunder rolled overhead that night as the storm picked up intensity again. Beck scowled at the sky from where she sat in the large tent. Thank goodness this thing's durable, she thought. Otherwise, she'd be out in the cold. She refocused, switching her attention back to the sample in the microscope in front of her, but her thoughts refused to stay concentrated. Instead, they wandered back and forth, unable to settle and find a place. She hadn't been expecting to encounter Sherlock. She had known that it was a possibility, of course; he lived in London, but there were several million people living there besides him. The dig site was actually close to where they had both lived when they knew each other, but she had known for sure she wouldn't find him there. He was the same but different then when she'd known him, shockingly similar in some ways, but others… She couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed. Then it occurred to her. He was, in some ways, like he'd been when they'd only just met. Beck honestly didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad one.<p>

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><p><em>She remembered the first time something had seemed off. It was just two weeks after they'd first met. It was nothing major, but it had still stuck out. She'd gone to meet him at the park after classes had gotten out for the day, and she'd found him on the swings. She dashed over excitedly.<em>

_"Hey!" He looked up, startled, and Beck could have sworn that he looked afraid for a split second. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I was just glad to see you." He gave her a slight smile in return, but still looked upset._

_"How are you?" he asked mechanically._

_"Good, but how are you? You look upset," she responded, genuinely concerned. Sherlock looked surprised._

_"Oh, um, I kind of had a bad day." Beck frowned._

_"I'm sorry. Why'd you look so dang surprised when I asked how you were?" she joked. Sherlock gave her another small smile and shrugged._

_"Not many people care how I am."_

_"Well that's stupid," Beck responded. "How can somebody be upset and nobody care? What about your parents?" Sherlock stared at the ground._

_"Yeah." Beck noticed a red mark on his head, near his hairline, and frowned further. _

_"What'd you do to your head?" Sherlock looked so startled he nearly fell out of the swing. _

_"Oh, nothing, I just- had my hand there, is all." Beck narrowed her eyes. She wasn't buying it._

_"Did somebody hit you?" Sherlock took on a deer-in-the-headlights look. "Cause it looks like it. My daddy got into a fight one time, and he had a mark just like that 'cause somebody clocked him one." _

_"No, it was just my hand, that's all."_

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><p>A particularly loud burst of thunder shook Beck out of her memories and she remembered that she had slides to look at. She shook her head to herself and readjusted the focus on the microscope. No purpose to be found in dwelling on the past, after all.<p>

She had to meet with the police again tomorrow, just to wrap up her statement and make sure she wasn't lying about her alibi; just all the general stuff cops had to do when you found a body on your day off. She shook her head to herself, not sure how she always managed to attract that kind of trouble; England must have hated her or something. She hollered across the tent to one of the other scientists on the dig.

"Hey Josh, I gotta go up to the city again tomorrow, so I might not be there." He nodded at her.

"With this rain, I don't think you'll be missed."

Beck didn't know what had possessed her to think Dallas was a big city; it had nothing on it compared to London, which stretched out for miles to any side, a tangled web of streets, shops, and alleys. And people. Millions of people, all jostling for space, and on her first day in town she'd managed to run into the one that she actually knew. One advantage Beck had always possessed was a very good sense of direction. You kind of had to have one when you spent most of your time working completely off-road or you'd never find your way back to town, after all. She checked her watch and cursed silently. If she didn't find the cop shop soon, she'd be late for her meeting.

It was a quick check to confirm her alibi; according to the coroner, Howard had been killed between four and five in the morning, during which Beck had been in a different town helping unload a van-full of equipment. Lestrade cleared her off in the computer and decided to take advantage of his captive audience.

"So, you two knew each other?" he asked, referring to Sherlock. Beck smiled.

"Yeah. We met when we were seven. I moved away when I was sixteen." There was a momentary hesitation in her voice before 'moved away', so slight Lestrade barely noticed it, and he wondered what else she might have filled the gap there with. Everyone at the Yard had, of course, spent all their downtime discussing what exactly was up with those two. Most people Sherlock ran into from his past spoke to him with, at best, veiled hostility, so Beck's reaction had been highly unexpected.

"Did you two… date?" Lestrade couldn't picture Sherlock dating _anyone_, but then he and Beck were remarkably similar. Beck laughed out loud.

"Nah, we never went out. We were friends, but that was it. Neither of us were ever really the dating type. Is he at home today? I might swing by and bug him since I'm in town." Beck headed out the door into the gentle rain. She'd looked up his address yesterday, on the off chance that he'd actually spend some time at home until the case was solved. John answered the door when she knocked.

"I didn't mean to impose if you're too busy, but I was wondering if Sherlock was here."

"He's not here right now, but you can come in if you want to; he shouldn't be too much longer, hopefully." Beck smiled and gladly accepted his offer to come in out of the rain. She laughed as she entered their chaotic sitting room.

"Well, I see some of his habits haven't changed any with time. Good to know." John gave her a rueful look.

"Ah, so he was always like this? I thought so." He moved off into the kitchen to make tea while Beck seated herself on the couch. "So how long did you two know each other for?"

"Almost ten years; nine and a half, actually. Met when we were seven. We were pretty much each other's only friend, so we hung out a lot. Then my dad got sent back to Texas twelve years ago, and we didn't see each other after that." Again, as before, John noticed some slight sadness in her voice; she sounded like their parting had not been a happy one, and he found himself wondering what had happened the last time they met.

"Something went wrong, didn't it?" John's question caught Beck off guard and she paused, unsure how to react.

"Sorry, what?"

"The last time you two saw each other, something went wrong, didn't it?" Beck sighed.

"Yeah, something went wrong. Something went astronomically, incalculably wrong."

"What?" Beck hesitated in her response, and John wondered if she'd respond at all. It wouldn't surprise him if she didn't; it really wasn't his business, after all, but he got the sense that whatever was bothering Sherlock right now stemmed from whatever it was Beck was talking about. Finally, Beck settled on a reply.

"It's not my place to tell you. I would, but it just ain't."

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><p><strong>... REVIEW! That is all.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: You know, there are very few times I don't like living in America. But one of them is when the new season of Sherlock started _yesterday_ and I'm not going to be able to watch it until May. Just, stew here and listen to everyone in Britain talk about how awesome it inevitably is. But on the upside I got to watch a twelve hour marathon PBS aired of Doctor Who from David Tennant up until the end of Matt Smith's first series. So that made it somewhat better. But I still want Sherlock. Which I should point out by the way, I don't own. Or I'd be watching it, damn it.**

**Also, just a warning: there's nothing graphic, but the second half of this (all the parts in italics) gets fairly dark. I felt like an awful person just writing it, so avoid that if it's some kind of trigger. **

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><p>John only had a couple of seconds to wonder about Beck's statement; shortly thereafter, Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street, bringing with him a flash drive with copies of every file on Thomas Howard's computer. His backed-up file had been hidden well, and that meant they got to search through every document on his computer. John groaned, looking far less than enthusiastic.<p>

"It's like fate has a pathological aversion to making things easy for us." Beck snorted.

"Y'all need some help there?" she asked, half-jokingly. "Seriously, though, I can come back later. You guys are busy. Just thought I'd drop by and see how you were." Beck realized that as much as she wanted to see her old friend, her presence was not needed at that juncture and so she bade them farewell, making her way back to the Underground station. The phone in the phone booth rang when she passed, but she ignored it. She ignored the second and third ones, too, but the fourth made her think there was a bit of a trend going on. And she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly who was busy screwing with her. She rolled her eyes, stepped into the booth, and snatched up the receiver.

"So is this like a one-sided game of phone tag?"

"Very funny."

"Well I know, that's why I picked it. Seriously, dude, you don't have to reinvent the wheel; I got one of these things already, you can even call it."

"I am well aware of that, Rebecca, just as I am sure you are well aware of what I wish to speak with you about."

"Yeah, yeah; do you know for a minute there I was actually thinking I could avoid that."

"Hm, I take it you're still not fond of me." Beck snorted.

"Nah, I never minded you." She sounded resigned. "Where do you want me to meet you?" There was no getting out of it. She really hadn't ever disliked Mycroft, but then they'd never really gotten along. She'd always received the distinct impression that he could have easily done without her. Not that she'd cared, of course.

"There is a small café next to a clothing shop on Sixth Street. Be there in half an hour." He hung up abruptly. Beck rolled her eyes and thought to herself, _commanding as ever, you are._ How fast did that man think she could walk? Sixth Street was nearly a mile away. She rolled her eyes again.

The café was a shorter walk then she had originally anticipated, but it still took her just over twenty minutes to make it there. She had been wondering why he would want to meet her in public, but one quick look at the nearly deserted café made it obvious that it wasn't really that much of a risk. The only people present were her, Mycroft, and a dark haired woman that Beck had never seen before. She took the seat across from them silently, waiting for Mycroft to start the conversation. In response, he slid a file across the table at her. She opened it, barely bothering to look at what was inside of it before she closed it and broke the silence.

"I had a feeling this was what you wanted to talk about." Mycroft looked grave, but his composure didn't slip an inch when he responded.

"He's being released in five days." Beck's eyes widened slightly and she leaned back against the chair, letting out her breath in a huff. God, had it really been twelve years? She'd known it had been coming up, but still… Her eyes narrowed as the anger returned.

"Well, that was excellent timing on my part, wasn't it? Who knows, maybe the ass kicking will stick this time."

"You have to control yourself-" Beck cut him off at the pass.

"I damn well do not have to control myself. I controlled myself last time and look how that turned out; I'll make a mistake once but I won't make it twice. If he comes anywhere near him-" It was Mycroft's turn to interrupt.

"Oh believe me, I can ensure that does not happen. However, the last thing that we need is for you to get in trouble with the law." Beck looked mutinous, but reluctantly agreed.

"Alright, I'll restrain myself. But I'm not making any promises. Is there anything else, or can I go now? I have to get all the way out to the dig site before dark falls." It was a hollow question. She had no intention of staying any longer. Beck swept out of the café, shaking her head. This was going to end badly, she could tell.

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><p>John arched his back and rubbed his neck, muttering rude words to himself. He and Sherlock were taking shifts going through Thomas Howard's computer files, and despite a solid four hours of work, they had yet to find anything even remotely suspicious or unusual among the endless strings of business papers and presentation drafts. John had been going at it for the last two hours and by now it was almost time for him to pass the torch off to Sherlock. He looked around for the lanky detective but couldn't find him within eyesight.<p>

Sherlock was in the kitchen checking on an ongoing experiment he had constructed on the ever-cluttered kitchen table when he bumped into a beaker, which fell off the table and shattered on the kitchen floor. Sherlock swore loudly, bringing John from the living room to the kitchen in concern.

"You alright? Did you hurt yourself?" Sherlock shook his head, staring at the mess, while his mind drifted off unbidden.

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><p><em>Sherlock was only seven the first time it happened. It was just a month before he met Beck. His mother and brother had gone into town and he had been sitting in the kitchen, just messing around like any other seven year old, when his glass of orange juice had tipped and spilled all over the floor. He scowled and hopped out of the chair to get a towel when his father had come into the room.<em>

_"What did you do?" _

_"Sorry, it just tipped over, I'll clean it up." In his haste to get a rag his elbow hit the fallen glass, which rolled onto the floor and smashed. Sherlock winced at the noise and looked apologetically at his father. "Sorry," he said again. His father glared at him._

_"Don't apologize, clean it the hell up," he growled. Sherlock looked at his father and blinked. He rarely heard his dad swear, and certainly not at his children or with that tone of voice. He wasn't entirely sure what to do, a rarity for him even at seven, so he simply stopped and did nothing. It was a bad move._

_"Didn't you hear me?" His father strode forward and seized him by the shirt front, pulling him bodily over to the sink while Sherlock's smaller form struggled to keep pace. "Clean it up!" He practically threw the boy down on the ground and stood there while he got rid of the mess. Sherlock barely dared to glance at his father while he worked; he had never acted like that before, and Sherlock couldn't figure out what was causing his unusual behavior. Since neither his mother nor brother was home at that time, it must be him, but Sherlock couldn't for the world think of what he'd done. _

_Sherlock finished cleaning and put the rag in the sink, moving cautiously past his father. He decided to try and make it up, thinking maybe his father was just in a bad mood. "I'm sorry I dropped the glass," he said once more. His father again grabbed him by the shirt and slammed the small boy up against the refrigerator._

_"Stop fucking apologizing!" he yelled. Sherlock flinched and clamped his mouth shut, more afraid then he'd ever been in his life. His father seized him hard by the wrist and dragged him out of the kitchen to the hallway. Sherlock tripped when he let go and fell to the ground and his father bent over him. "Now, you will not say a word of this to _anyone_, do you understand me?" Sherlock could only nod, still too frightened to open his mouth. "Good." His father strode off down the hallway to his study, leaving Sherlock lying on the ground, staring after him._

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><p><strong>AN: Aaaaand, I felt like a douche just writing that... You're welcome. :( Please feel free to leave comments or suggestions. For real. _Do it._**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So when I started this I decided to make Beck a paleontologist for the sole reason of giving me an excuse to ramble about paleontology. And I did. And it was fun to write. Also, it's a pretty convenient explanation for getting her back in the country, since paleontology involves a lot of traveling. If you like rambling too, feel free to leave a review. Feel free even if you don't like rambling. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, _tell me something._ For real.**

**Warning for child abuse.**

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><p>Sherlock returned to the present, but there was an odd ringing in his ears that he couldn't seem to get rid of. He ignored John, who was still asking him if he was alright, and moved out mechanically into the living room. He seated himself in front of the laptop, but his eyes didn't focus on the screen. Rather, they fought their way out of the past; he didn't need to be concerned with that now, it was all over and done. He shouldn't even be worrying about it, why was he worried about it? Fear was an anathema to him, something he considered unnecessary. Still, it sat in the back of his mind and he couldn't be rid of it. Not that he hadn't tried; contrary to speculation, drugs were not just for recreation when you had nothing better to do.<p>

But nothing worked. His fear sat at the back of his mind, mocking him. He couldn't get rid of it, no matter what he did. He'd done his best to hide that fear from everyone during childhood, especially his father. Fear was considered a weakness, just like crying. He fought the drag of the past as he thought of them.

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><p><em>"Are you afraid of me?" Sherlock started violently at his father's voice, all but answering the older man's question. <em>

_"What?" His voice shook. It was just a couple of days after his father had pushed him against the refrigerator and ever since then Sherlock had been doing his best to stay quiet and out of the way. They were once again alone in the house, and he didn't know what he'd done now to attract his father's attention. His father repeated the question._

_"Are. You. Afraid of me?" Sherlock didn't know how to answer that question. He got the same feeling that he'd gotten just before the fridge incident, that rare sense of not knowing what to do that disconcerted him. Truth be told, he _was_ afraid of his father, but he was also afraid that wasn't the answer he should produce._

_"Um, am I supposed to be?" He decided to split the difference. He wasn't trying to be rude, he just genuinely didn't know what to say, but his father didn't react well. He stood up fast out of his chair and pulled Sherlock to his feet. No one else was meant to be home for hours, and now Sherlock was well and truly frightened._

_"What did you say?" His father growled. When Sherlock didn't respond, his father shook him. "What did you say to me?" The boy was shaking now, but he knew he had to respond._

_"Am I supposed to be afraid of you?" His father seized him by the collar with one hand. He lifted the other and backhanded the seven year old right across the head, and then let go of him. Sherlock dropped to the floor still trembling and stared up at him, too scared to even move. His father stood over him._

_"You are supposed to be afraid of me," he told the boy. "Fear is a weakness, and it's not like you were born with any guts. Now get up," he commanded. Shaking, the seven year old got to his feet. The side of his face felt like it was on fire, and he could tell even now that he was going to have a hell of a red mark in a very short time. His father seized him by the arm and looked his child right in the eye._

_"If anyone asks you what happened, you will tell them you tripped and when you fell you hit yourself on the chair. I think you know by now that if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone anywhere it will be my word against yours and I guarantee that no one will believe you. If you decide to do that anyway, I _will_ make you regret it. Do you understand me?" Sherlock nodded, and his father shook him again. "I said, do you understand me? Use your words, boy."_

_"Yes, sir."_

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><p>Sherlock snapped back into awareness when John shook him gently on the shoulder. Ignoring John's repeated question ("Are you alright?") he stood up and swept over to his coat. "I'm going out," he said bluntly, not offering up any more comprehensive of an explanation. John debated with himself, but decided to let the detective go, since he was very much aware that nothing he could say would stop him. John was thoroughly confused now, and resolved that while Sherlock was out he would go to wherever it was Beck was digging at and figure out what in the living fires of hell was going on, because he was getting sick and tired of being left in the dark.<p>

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><p>"Hey Beck, there's someone here to talk to you," Charlie shouted from across the tent. Even in his irritated mood, John suppressed a slight smile. It seemed that paleontologists embraced the 'laid-back' approach to everything but their science; after all, there was no reason to get up and get someone when hollering would do just as well, was there? Beck looked over and saw John.<p>

"Hey, John, how're you doing?" She straitened back up from where she had been bending over a table and turned to him.

"Oh, I'm doing okay. Still looking through that continent's worth of computer files." John looked at the specimens on the table Beck had been working with. He knew that there must have been a difference between them, but for the life of him he couldn't tell what it was. To him they just looked like varying sizes of rocks on a fold-out table. Beck saw him staring at the fossils and smiled.

"Look interesting?"

"It looks confusing," John laughed. "How on earth do you tell what's what?" Beck jumped at the chance to explain, or rather ramble, about what she was working on.

"Well, at this stage of the game, we don't know with a lot of it. I mean, we know _what_ it is, but a lot of the fossils are still surrounded by layers of rock that we have to go in and take off piece by piece. Most of these fossils are of aquatic or marine animals, hard shelled organisms or organisms that had skeletons."

"Why is that?"

"Well, because of the geology, we can tell that this whole stretch of land, the whole country really, was underwater until fairly recently. 'Recently' being in geologic time, of course, not human time. This particular site is dated from the Devonian period, which was about 500 million years ago. That was when more or less all life was in the oceans and the water. The limestone that makes up most of England is actually made of fossils; microscopic little organisms that died and piled up on the ocean bottom. Over time the layers of these things that built up were buried by more layers and so the originals were slowly compressed into rock, and then when the tectonic plates shifted, England got pushed up out of the water and the limestone that had been buried until that point was exposed. The weaker bits were eroded by the wind and water and that formed the English Channel, but the tougher sections stuck behind and formed the shape of the U.K. as we know it today. When that limestone got pushed up, the fossils of all the marine organisms that died and were buried millions of years ago got raised along with it; now all we have to do is find 'em and dig 'em up. We can't tell for sure where they are unless they're exposed on the surface- which is actually how we find most of them- but we can make good guesses based on what we know about the land and the environment in the past. So even if these fossils just look like lumps of dead stuff on a table, we can guess with a fair amount of accuracy that they were, at one point, living aquatic animals."

By the time Beck had finished talking, John's head was spinning like a top. She could talk almost as fast as Sherlock, which he could have handled, but going through five hundred million years of England's history in about two minutes was what threw him.

"Um… okay." Beck laughed at John's windblown look.

"Sorry if I rambled, it's just most people who know me know not to ask me about paleontology." Her face changed abruptly, growing more serious. "But I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that bivalves have nothing to do with why you came to find me." John nodded.

"It's about Sherlock," he began. He didn't fail to notice that Beck shifted rather uneasily and gripped the edge of the table, but pretended for the moment that he had. "Something's been bothering him for the last few days and he won't tell me what; he keeps getting distracted and agitated. It's starting to worry me and I'm getting right sick of not knowing what's going on. I figured you knew him before I did, maybe you could tell me what he's so upset about." Beck bit her lip. She could tell that John Watson was not the type of man to back down from anything, but there were some secrets that weren't hers to share.

"You worry about him a lot don't you? I can tell. That's good, and for what it's worth, I worry about him too."

"Even after you left?" Beck laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"Especially after that happened." She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "Look, what I said before holds, I can't tell you something that's not mine to tell. But I'll talk to Sherlock, see if I can convince him to speak with you. He's going to have to eventually. Trust me," she continued, seeing the look on John's face, "I know how it feels to want to do something for your friend but have your hands tied." John sighed.

"I just wish he would let me help him."

"Just… wait and you'll be able to do something. He needs you, John, more than he'll ever admit. Because he's always going to be running around saving the world from something; he needs someone to run around saving him from the world."

John was still thoroughly dissatisfied with his answer, but at least Beck had promised to try and work on it. As it so happened, she got her opportunity not one minute after she said that, when Sherlock came into the tent. Beck smiled at him.

"Hey, dude, wasn't expecting to see you here. Did you come for this one?" She gestured her head at John. Sherlock nodded and joined them at the table.

"How is your work going?"

"Pretty good so far, I was just rambling to John about it; he actually sat through the entire thing, he's been around you too much." John laughed and then spoke up.

"How _did_ you know I was here, anyway?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It was obvious; you were gone when I got back to the flat, but you'd left no note, so clearly your leaving was a spontaneous decision. The only thing that could have caused that was _my_ abrupt departure, so it made sense that the next person you'd track down was my old friend, to try and see if she could explain my unusual behavior. I've noticed you watching me the past few days, and I know that I've been acting oddly. So, I went to look and here you are." John and Beck were both used to Sherlock's rapid-fire explanations, and so John was able to refocus and shoot Beck a very clear look. A look that read, 'you hold up your end of the bargain now.' She nodded almost imperceptibly and turned to Sherlock.

"We need to talk." She gestured with her head in the direction of the tent opening. "And no, you're not getting out of it."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Whoo, late update is late... O.O My apologies, but I was stupidly busy all weekend and during the week my teachers apparently decided that spare time was not a necessary facet of our existence. Lu-cky. :( So, you know what I like? Reviews. I like them a lot, as a matter of fact, especially if they tell me what you think or how to improve it. And I promise I respond to them, too. So... yeah. **

**Warning** **once again for child abuse, although I think it's only mentions of it in this chapter.**

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><p>"John put you up to this, didn't he?" Sherlock had seen both the look and the nod. Beck gave him a hint of a smile.<p>

"Absolutely; he's getting worried about you. It ain't right to keep him in the dark like this. He's your friend; he'll understand."

"I'm not going to tell him."

"You're not going to have much of a choice in the matter come Thursday!" Beck responded. "If he doesn't hear it from you, he'll hear it from someone else, and that's not fair to him. He's a good man, I can tell that much, and I've only spoken to him for five minutes. It wasn't your fault, and he'll know that." Beck was trying her hardest, but she could tell that it wasn't taking. "I can tell this isn't going to stick, but at least think about it, will you?" He nodded once, shortly, and left her standing out under the sky, staring down at the dig site but not really looking at it.

John gave Sherlock a bad 'not interested at all in your conversation' look. "So how'd that go?" Sherlock gave him a half-paying attention, half-mind in space stare. He shrugged.

"We have a murderer to catch." John sighed to himself. Clearly Beck's conversation hadn't done any good. He followed Sherlock out toward the road, not pressing the matter any further. The dig site, while not nearly as isolated as some, was still far from what one would call a proper road, so the two men had to wait for some of the crew to go into town and give them a lift back. While they waited, John tried to focus on finding Thomas Howard's killer, but on the inside, Sherlock's behavior was still troubling him. He wished the detective would just trust him and tell him what was going on. But he knew that forcing the issue wouldn't work, and as a matter of fact, would probably make things worse.

Sherlock had, of course, noticed John's trouble refocusing and had already guessed that he was the source of it. He debated with himself about whether or not to tell the doctor the truth; deep down, he knew that Beck was probably right, but his pride wouldn't let him confide in anyone. Well, pride and fear; in his case the two were interrelated. He opened his mouth when John had his back turned, but decided otherwise and closed it again.

"I think our ride's coming," John commented. Sherlock thought about his lost opportunity. He could have told John the truth; but would he have? Beck _was_ right, he wouldn't have a choice much longer. Come Thursday his hand would more or less be forced. He scowled and pushed the issue forcefully to the back of his mind. He would deal with that Thursday; for now, he focused wholeheartedly on catching Thomas Howard's killer.

"Good," he responded. "We've only gotten through half the files. Did you find anything unusual?" John shook his head.

"Nothing; just business papers and presentations. Nothing illegal or blackmail worthy or anything like that. Did you find anything while you were looking?"

"Nothing of note." John and Sherlock caught a ride with one of the crew that was going into London to pick up some scientific equipment for their research. After one bumpy ride, they were back in the city, where they took a cab back to Baker Street and continued their interminable research quest.

John's eyes were beginning to lose focus on the screen when he finally found something of note. Even then, it was only of note because it simply made no sense, not because it was anything suspicious. "Hey Sherlock, come look at this," he called out, bringing the taller man to his side. "I can't make sense of it; why do you think he has this in his computer?" Sherlock frowned at the screen. The file was simple, actually one of the smallest on the laptop. It contained no business information, and nothing personal. It was a list of information about Seth Russell, the man Thomas had gotten into a bar brawl with.

"Is there nothing else to that file?" Sherlock asked the doctor. He shook his head. Sherlock nodded slowly. "Let's take this back to Thomas' friend in IT and see what he makes of it. If this is the file he backed up for him, then we may have just found our best suspect."

Beck lost track of how long she had been staring at the muddy dig site before she snapped back into her senses. She had been thinking again; not a good pastime. But she couldn't help it, not after her conversation with Sherlock. It seemed to ring back to almost every conversation they'd had in childhood, the same thing repeating over and over.

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><p><em>Beck had considered trying subtlety, but decided that a more direct approach was in order here. "Who's been hitting you?" she asked him. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, but he could tell from her tone that she would brook no argument and wasn't going to let him get out of this. "If it's another one of the kids here you won't get in trouble for wailing 'em back, I asked the teacher about it already."<em>

_"It's not any of the other kids." It wasn't; they didn't hit him, they just insulted him and ignored him. Everyone except Beck, and Lord only knew what she'd seen in him in the first place. He had hoped to deflect her inquiries entirely, but realized that he'd slipped up already by admitting that someone had been hitting him. Beck knew it too._

_"So who is it then? And don't you lie, cause you've already as good as said somebody has been. And I ain't letting you go till you cough up." She stood in front of him and crossed her arms, resolute. _

_"It's private; besides, what do you care?" She gave him a look that could singe his hair._

_"I'll let you know what business it is of mine- I care cause you're my friend and I don't like it when you keep secrets from me and I _especially _don't like it when people hurt you and get the hell away with it!" Sherlock wondered if all Texans were as forward as Beck. They certainly didn't give up easily. His resolve was cracking, but his father's threats still rang in his mind. If he told Beck the truth and she went to the cops… He gave her a resigned stare._

_"I'll tell you, but only if you swear to me before I say a word that you won't tell anyone else what's going on."_

_"Okay, I swear. Now who's been punching on you?" _

_"My father. It started recently, about two months ago. I don't know why, I haven't done anything different than usual." Beck inhaled and exhaled slowly, her face darkening._

_"Sherlock, you gotta go to the cops. Now."_

_"He told me not to tell anyone."_

_"Well you know what, screw him! What he's doing is wrong and illegal and he needs to be stopped. My parents can give you a lift to the police station and-"_

_"No!" Sherlock interrupted her. "You can't say anything to your parents. You swore you wouldn't, remember? Please, the police won't believe me, it'll only get worse." Beck's face darkened further as she remembered that she had, in fact, promised. And she couldn't go back on her word. She took a seat next to Sherlock and sighed._

_"Alright," she responded. "God help me, I'll keep your secret. For now." Her father had arrived to pick her up from school and she left Sherlock reluctantly. Before leaving, she turned back to him. "You know where my house is right?" He nodded. "If you ever need someplace else to be, come there. You can trust us." _

_Beck's father noticed that when his daughter got into the car, she looked distinctly downcast. "You alright?" he said. "You look off about something." She shrugged, doing her best to look unbothered._

_"It's nothing." Richard arched an eyebrow at his seven year old. He hadn't spent a decade and a half working with GIs on the flight line for nothing. That man could smell a lie a thousand yards off._

_"Oh really? So what's so depressing about this 'nothing'?" Beck hesitated; she could always tell her father the truth, break her promise. But then she thought of how Sherlock would feel if she did that. He was genuinely afraid of his secret getting out, and if his only friend were the one to do it, he would be completely alone. Beck forced a casual look onto her face._

_"It's nothing, really, I'm just thinking."_

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><p>Looking back, Beck would never get why she didn't confide in her father right then, instead of waiting until it was almost too late. Now, of course, she realized that stopping Sherlock's father was more important than keeping his secret, but as a seven year old, things had not been that clear cut. She couldn't bear the idea of leaving him without anyone to trust in, so she hadn't done what she should have.<p>

She wandered her way back to the tent. It wouldn't be too long before people started figuring out what was going on, and Beck desperately hoped that Sherlock would confide in the doctor _before_ that happened. For all that she knew how difficult that would be, at the same time she had been where John was now and knew how worried he was and how much he cared for his friend. She sighed quietly to herself and shook her head, reentering the tent. There was little she could do about it now; either he'd tell John or he'd wait for everything to come to a head. She took a seat by the table and refocused, but remembered to call out to Charlie,

"Hey Charlie, I'm gonna be busy Thursday; over in the city." She turned back to her specimens, but her eyes never really refocused.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Yay, less than a week on this one! That's how I'm making up for taking a week and a half to post the last chapter. As always, tell me what you think, because I live off of reviews, and I hope you enjoy. And yes, I promise I will (eventually) solve the actual murder. I swear. :P I just remembered to remind you (don't know why I'd need to...) that absolutely none of this is in my possession except for Beck. So don't bother suing. Cause I'm broke as stink. ^-^**

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><p>Nathan was just as if not more busy than he was when they had first seen him, but he still managed to find a couple of minutes to squeeze them in and answer their questions. "The file Thomas asked you to back up for him, was it this one?" Sherlock turned the laptop to face Nathan, who scrutinized it carefully, and then nodded.<p>

"Yeah, that was it; I remember now. He said it was just a hunch, but if he got anything substantial he wanted to make sure there was no good way to get rid of the information. His words, not mine; I had no idea what he was getting at."

"Did he say what it was a hunch about?" John asked. Nathan shook his head.

"No, he didn't say anything like that, all he talked about was having a suspicion; well, he more muttered it, really. I don't think he wanted anyone to hear what he talking about. I can't imagine why, though, it's just Sean's address and stuff like that." Having received their confirmation, the two men left Nathan to his business. Sean Brennan wasn't at work right then, so they returned to their flat to form a plan of attack.

"Do you think he might have suspected Sean of stealing from his company?" John asked the detective, who shrugged thoughtfully.

"He might have; but in that case why not just report it to Sean's boss? There would've been no reason for Thomas to keep his suspicions to himself- unless it was to do with something personal." Sherlock sat forward in the cab, an epiphany look on his face. "He might have suspected Sean of doing something illegal, but unrelated to his workplace."

"So, in case that was it, he took down all his information and kept it safe for when he got any hard evidence of illegal activities. That way he could go straight to the police." John picked up where Sherlock left off, catching on to his train of thought. The taller man nodded.

"Exactly; we need to keep an eye on Sean Brennan, and see what he's doing that got Thomas so suspicious." A rather pertinent question popped into John's mind.

"Do you think Sean killed Thomas, though? Why would he, if he didn't know that Thomas was watching him?"

"Sean may have figured out that Thomas suspected him of something," Sherlock pointed out, "but you're right, him simply being involved in something illegal doesn't guarantee that he's our murderer. We'll have to keep a close eye on him and watch for any evidence. If we can figure out what Thomas was suspicious about, we might get enough leverage over Sean to get something else out of him."

They soon learned that Sean was going to be out of town with his family until Wednesday, leaving them with a two-day gap and not much to fill it with; Sean Brennan was their only suspect, and so far as they could tell, the only person with any possible sort of motivation to kill Thomas Howard. Sherlock went through the remaining evidence methodically, trying to ensure that there were no errors in their logic. So far as he could see, there were none, but confirmation of his suspicions would have to wait until Wednesday at the earliest.

John was trying to motivate himself to get ready for work, but his brain kept reminding him that he didn't have to be there for three hours. And it was starting to conquer the debate, too. Besides, he was already wearing his clothes and he'd taken a shower. That was more or less everything he _did_ to get ready for work. He had just begun scanning the TV channels for something worth watching when Sherlock came into the sitting room.

He had finished looking over the case notes and then gone up to his room. He pulled an old, plain envelope out of his desk drawer and opened it, tilting out the photographs inside. They were all at least twelve years old, some of them even from when he was below ten, and he didn't look at them very often. He shook his head, wondering to himself what the hell he was doing, and went down to the couch.

John noticed the envelope and wondered what was inside it; it was obviously at least a few years old, and there was a bulge in the middle, like something was piled in there. He was immensely surprised when Sherlock opened it and slid out a small stack of pictures. "What are those of?" he asked, wondering if it had anything to do with the case, though he realized that was highly unlikely. Sherlock glanced at him, seeming to snap out of his thoughts.

"Oh, they're from when I was younger; Mycroft had kept them and gave them back to me a couple of years ago." He separated them and laid them out on the coffee table. A few were Sherlock with his family, and there were a couple of him at school. There was even one of him sitting on the kitchen floor reading the newspaper as a four year old. The vast majority of them, however, were of Sherlock and Beck, varying from when their age couldn't have been out of the single digits up to their mid-teens.

Looking over them, John smiled. He could almost track Sherlock growing older, one image at a time, and it struck him how little he appeared to have changed. From what he knew of Beck (such as his knowledge was), she had retained the same attitude from her childhood as well. Both of their personalities were evident even in the earliest shots. "Wow," he remarked with a grin. "You have not changed a bit." Sherlock gave a slight smile.

"No, neither of us have, really." He picked one of the newest ones up; it was a photo of him and Beck together outside somewhere. They couldn't have been more than fourteen, standing in front of a rock face to avoid the noonday sun. Beck was leaning casually against a boulder, her arms crossed and a wide grin on her face; she looked like she was having the time of her life. Sherlock was next to her, on top of a small outcrop about waist high. He was crouched like a cat, with one leg dangling over the edge down towards the ground. John was slightly amused to see that he was dressed casually, in a t-shirt and jeans, instead of his usual suit.

"Where was _that_ taken? I've never seen you go out in civvies before." He got a slight laugh from the detective.

"The only reason I did that time was because that was taken in the middle of nowhere. Beck's father took us out to this spot to talk about the geology and look for fossils; casual clothing was really the only thing you could get out there in. It was her fourteenth birthday gift, but it was just us two. Her father took this when we stopped for food."

"It looks like you were having fun also," John remarked. In the picture, there was a small smile on Sherlock's face, and he did genuinely look like he was enjoying himself. Of course, as his mind got ready for work, he slipped into doctor mode and spotted something odd about the picture. "What'd you do to your arm before that?" There was a large, dark blue bruise on his upper arm, evident from the way he had it tilted. The other man shifted suddenly, his attitude changing.

"I don't even remember now; besides, it was a couple days before that anyway." John was getting mighty tired of being forced out into the cold, and despite his earlier decision to the contrary, decided to go in full stop and find out what was wrong.

"So you don't even remember what you did, but you remember exactly when it happened? What the hell has been going on, Sherlock? This whole last week you've been agitated about something, but you keep hiding it from me; I'm getting sick of it! I want to help you and you won't let me- why can't you just tell me what's been bothering you so much?"

Sherlock stood up off the couch and made to leave again, but John followed him. Sherlock knew that he was unnecessarily worrying the other man, but right now he just did not care. John slid around him and positioned himself in the doorway, blocking the angry detective in the flat while the two engaged in a staring match. It was almost a clean draw; not many people could come close to staring down Sherlock Holmes, but John Watson was one of those elite few. After all, he hadn't spent those years in the Army to get intimidated by a _glare_.

Finally, just when the doctor thought that he'd be standing in the doorway for a month, Sherlock sighed and backed off, going back to the couch. "Yes, I remember when that happened, but I really don't know what I did to get it. And yes, something has been bothering me, and I am very much aware that you're worried about it. But you don't need to be; it's private, and it's nothing for you to concern yourself with."

John sighed quietly to himself and moved away from the door; he still wasn't happy with Sherlock's answer, not by a long shot, but he also knew that if the detective didn't want to tell him anything, then no force on heaven or earth could open him up till he was good and ready. Still, maybe John could learn at least a little about the taller man; he moved over to join Sherlock on the couch, hoping he could get the taller man to relax a little. "So, what are all these other pictures of?" To his surprise, Sherlock actually began to respond, and the two men spent the rest of the night peacefully, sitting on the couch and doing nothing more than looking at a bunch of old photos.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Whoo, this chapter turned out longer than I thought it would, so hopefully that makes up for the relative lateness. O.o I also felt like a complete and total asshole just for writing it, so reviews would be greatly appreciated for my trouble, no matter what they say (hinthint). So would wishes of luck for my calculus exam.**

**WARNING**** for child abuse, especially towards the end... Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go watch My Little Pony. O-O**

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><p>It was a tense wait for Wednesday to come. John was eager to solve the case and find out what Brennan had been up to. Assuming, of course, that he was up to anything; Howard's suspicions could very well have come to naught, in which case their progress would be put back by a long way. After all, their premise as it stood was that Sean Brennan was engaged in some sort of illegal activity that Thomas Howard either knew or suspected about, and when Brennan had figured out Howard was onto him, he had killed the other man to get rid of the threat. If Brennan were innocent of everything, then they would once again have no suspects and no motive.<p>

Brennan got back to town with his family early Wednesday afternoon, stretching his back from the long drive and hauling his suitcase into the house. John, perched on a bench across the road, did his best to fake looking at his newspaper while keeping a keen eye on Brennan. He'd also taken the precaution of bringing along his laptop, in case someone noticed his continual presence and thought to ask questions.

Sherlock had (and John wasn't going to ask _how_) acquired a copy of Brennan's schedule; he wasn't working today, and wasn't due in until nine the following morning. Luckily for their stake out efforts, Brennan had left the curtain on his front window open and John could see through quite clearly. However, despite his vigilance, it appeared that Brennan was done with any illegal activities for the day, and John rapidly found himself getting distracted from the task at hand; instead, he found his mind wandering to Sherlock, trying to tangle out the puzzle that was the detective's behavior recently. Even though he'd told John not to concern himself with it, the doctor couldn't help but worry about his friend. He wasn't the only one.

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><p>Try as she might, Beck simply couldn't focus on her work, so instead she made her excuses and went out to do some digging; there was a shark's tooth and part of a jawbone almost completely extracted from the ground and she worked carefully around the edges to free it enough to encase in plaster. Unlike John, the source of Sherlock's behavior was no mystery to her, but it was certainly no less of a problem. She bit her lip as she thought about tomorrow; she had sworn she would protect him, and she kept her word, even if she'd given it as a seven year old.<p>

What made it especially hard was that, for a little bit there, it had seemed like she wouldn't _need_ to protect him. As they both turned eight, things had finally, ever so slowly, calmed down and they thought maybe his father would back off. Sherlock had started to open back up to the world. And that was when everything got shot straight back to hell.

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><p><em>He had actually called and asked her to come over; he had never done that before, and Beck decided to take it as a good sign. At least, she hoped it was a good sign. She got her dad to drop her off at Sherlock's house on his way to the flight line and hurried up to the door, bouncing on her feet. She gave him a broad smile when he answered. "Hey! I got till like five to stay over, cause dad can't pick me up till he gets out of the hangar. They've got a weather plane they're working on and it's so small on the inside; it's ridiculous, none of 'em are thin enough to fit in there." She laughed, but then she noticed that Sherlock didn't look too happy. <em>

_"Come in," he told her, moving sideways so that she could slide in past him. She looked around in confusion._

_"Where's your family at?" He shrugged._

_"They're all out for the day." Beck was slightly surprised; it wasn't like his family to leave him alone in the house, but she figured they must not have thought it too much of a risk. "I need to talk with you about something." He shifted nervously, staring at the ground._

_"Okay, then, whatcha want to talk about?" Beck hoped his father hadn't been hitting him again. Despite the fact that she had told him to come to her house if that happened, he hadn't gone, fearing it would only make things worse. _

_"It's about him." Her stomach lurched. "It's kind of… can we talk in my room?" Beck nodded and followed Sherlock to the second floor. She couldn't restrain a small laugh at the state of his room; it was complete chaos, with books and homework and the remains of experiments scattered about. There was a violin and some sheet music in the corner, and the bow lay on top of the bedcovers. _

_Sherlock moved it and slid up onto the bed, twirling it pensively in his fingers. Beck hopped up next to him, reflecting that if he weren't looking so sad, it would be nice to just watch him think. She sighed quietly to herself. "So what were you sayin' 'bout your dad?" Sherlock continued to stare at the twirling bow until Beck began to wonder if he'd ever respond. She had almost given up, when,_

_"He's sleeping with somebody." Beck nodded slowly, processing the information._

_"'Somebody' as in, not your mom?" He nodded. "How'd you find out?"_

_"I saw him kiss her when we were in a store; he thought I wasn't watching." He looked at Beck, seeming torn. "I don't know what to do about it; he's lying to my mother, and he's cheating on her. I don't know if I should tell her or keep it to myself." Beck's eyes widened as she tried to come up with a solution. "If I don't tell her, she'll still be happy, but if I do tell her then maybe my father will go away and leave us alone." Beck's eyes widened further._

_"Sherlock, I don't think you can break up your parent's marriage just to make your dad go away! Why don't you just tell your mom the truth? She'll know what to do about it." She was an optimist, but the whole situation was starting to drag her down; here everything going on was his father's fault and the only way he could see out of it was to make his parents divorce! It wasn't fair, but it seemed like the only thing to do; his mother (though she might not have known it) had no reason to be married to that man and all he was doing was bringing harm. Still, though, there had to be a better way than that. The two children sat in silent thought until they heard the front door open. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he gasped,_

_"No one's supposed to be home for ages!" Beck tried to calm him down._

_"It might be your mother, or your brother." Sherlock ran to his bedroom door and peered out. _

_"It's him." Beck's stomach sank to the floor. Sherlock closed the door and ran back over to the bed. "He doesn't know you're here, you have to hide, fast!" She jumped silently off the covers and slid underneath the bed, making sure to get as far back as she could. Sherlock made certain she was out of view and straightened up like a rocket just as his father came into the room. _

_From her cramped position, Beck could only see their feet and hear their voices, and her heart began to pound. His dad was clearly drunk. "How come you're back so soon?" Sherlock asked him, trying to skate around his father's inebriation. The man gave a short laugh._

_"Your mother sent me back; told me to get to sleep and sober up." _You could use it_, Beck thought. _

_"Are you going to? And did mum come back with you?" _

_"What are you asking so many questions for?" There was a violent undercurrent in the air now, and Beck clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from gasping. So long as his father didn't figure out she was there, she was in no danger, but she found herself shaking. _

_"I just… I was just wondering." Sherlock searched for a good answer, one that wouldn't incriminate Beck. His father seemed to accept it._

_"Your mother needs to loosen up," he grunted. "She's always on my back for something." Sherlock stiffened; he had always loved his mother greatly, and Beck found herself hoping he wouldn't say anything that would set his father off. _

_"Is that why you're cheating on her?" Sherlock asked accusingly. Beck winced as his father roared,_

_"What did you just say?" In spite of his fear, Sherlock's own anger grew until he found the courage to shout back._

_"I said, is that why you're cheating on her? I saw you the other day with that woman in the store; if I tell mother she'll make you leave and you won't be able to hurt me anymore." Beck felt her heart sink. She could tell already that he shouldn't have said that, and it seemed now that he could too, but he refused to apologize for his outburst. His father grabbed him by the collar, yanking the boy up onto his tiptoes. _

_"Oh really? And you think she'll believe you? Well, I've got news for you: if you don't apologize for that I will hurt you _right now_." Beck wished Sherlock would just apologize, but she knew his pride wouldn't let him, and sure enough, the young boy kept his mouth firmly shut, only opening it to say,_

_"No." Under the bed, Beck flinched as the sounds of Sherlock's father beating him came through. She wanted desperately to close her eyes, or cover her ears, but she didn't; she wouldn't. She couldn't bring herself to turn away from her friend, even if she could do nothing to help him._

_Sherlock steadfastly refused to apologize for the accusation, so his father backhanded him once, hard, and then again. Sherlock tried to push him away, shoving against his father's chest, so Robert grabbed his wrists with one hand and hit him in the chest with the other. Sherlock dropped to the floor, winded, as Robert let go of him. He had his back turned to Beck, still trying not to draw any possible attention to her presence, but even though he couldn't see her, she couldn't stop herself from reaching out towards him with one hand, stretching it as far as she dared but not quite touching him. Her other hand was flat against the floor, fingernails digging in so tightly that she thought she might leave an indentation. She was not afraid; she was furious. She found herself wishing she had a weapon, something, anything to get rid of his father with, but she was unarmed. _

_Sherlock winced one last time as his father kicked him, then lay still as Robert left the room to sleep off his hangover. He didn't move for a while after that, just lay silently, until Beck reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, and for the first time since the fury had taken over, Beck felt like crying. _

_"It's okay, Sherlock, it's me, remember?" He rolled over slowly to stare at her, breathing shallowly._

_"My chest hurts, Beck," he whispered. "It's really hard to breath." Beck slid out from under the bed and helped her friend up carefully, holding his hand. She attempted to reassure him, keeping her voice low._

_"I'll bet it is, Sherlock. C'mon, let's get you in bed, you can't stay on the floor." She placed him on top of the covers, careful to avoid touching his chest or face. He coughed a couple times and Beck frowned; it wasn't a good sound, weak and ragged. "I need to take your shirt off, you could be real hurt and I need to check it out." She slid his shirt off gently, careful not to jostle him. She winced; splotchy bruises were already beginning to form all over his ribs, but nothing looked or felt broken. She pulled the covers over him, still keeping her voice quiet._

_"You stay here; go to sleep if you can. I'm gonna make sure your dad's asleep." Sherlock grabbed her wrist._

_"Don't go," he whispered. "It's too dangerous." Beck placed her hand over his._

_"I know what I'm doing, Sherlock. I'll be fine; you just stay here, I'll be back as soon as possible." Beck's way of making sure Robert was asleep was to slip in and drop a sleeping pill she'd gotten from the bathroom into his glass of water when he left it unattended in the kitchen. Satisfied that was taken care of, she hurried back up to Sherlock's bedroom. _

_He had finally settled into a restless sleep, twitching and mumbling under his breath. Beck slipped in next to him and lay down; now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, exhaustion was setting in. She sighed to herself and looked at the ceiling. Her dad wasn't due to pick her up till five; she had time to sleep herself. She sank into a sharp-eared doze, and just before she fell asleep herself, she reached out and took hold of Sherlock's hand; she held onto it until they woke up._

_Every time she came over to his house after that, she brought her father's pocketknife along with her. _


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So I have a challenge to issue- I'm bored (and have at least a partial snow day :D) so I challenge anyone who wants to step up to write a fic. In honor of my Texan OC, it has to be based on one of the three following country songs: 'Drink in My Hand' by Eric Church, 'Beer for My Horses' by Toby Keith and Willie Nelson, or 'Five o' clock Somewhere' by Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett. Challenge issued. Now enjoy the chapter. And, as per usual, reviews mean a great deal and will be answered. ^-^**

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><p><em>He hadn't said a word to his mother, but she had still found out; it seemed the only thing Robert Holmes was good at covering up was the fact that he was a child abuser, and it hadn't taken Sherlock's mother long to figure out that her husband was cheating on her with some mystery woman. Initially Sherlock and Beck were hopeful that maybe, even if her marriage had to break up, at least his mother would throw his father out of the house and then if they were to get lucky, things would go back to normal. Of course, fate conspired to make things as hard as possible for them; the divorce took almost half a year to get started, argue, and settle. In that time, Sherlock had gotten a brief reprieve from his father when his parents decided to send him and Mycroft out of the house for a while so they wouldn't have to listen to them fighting.<em>

_They had gone to stay at their mother's cousin's house near the center of town; during that time, Beck was finally able to come over without having to keep her presence a secret, and she took Sherlock back to her house several times. She introduced him to her father, a thin, well-built man with an accent broader than the state he came from. He was completely and utterly insane in the best possible way, laughing at things that would send other parents up the wall and even helping the now nine year olds with some of their crazy experiments. While they were there, he told them stories about the planes he'd worked on and all the weird crap that inevitably went wrong during missions._

_Sherlock enjoyed the time he'd spent at Beck's house with her father; he enjoyed all of his time away from the house, truth be told. He was probably the only child in England who actually enjoyed the time when his parents were separating more than the times they were together. He and Beck could have chosen to focus on how absolutely and completely wrong that was, but they pushed it to the back of their minds as best they could. _

_One day, when the divorce was approaching finality, Beck found Sherlock sitting on a tree stump in the yard. She hopped up next to him, scooting around so they could talk properly. He looked thoughtful again, and not the good kind. She smiled gently at him._

_"What's up?" He shrugged, but it was barely even a movement of the shoulders. _

_"It's just… nothing. I'm not quite sure how to describe it."_

_"Well, you might as well give it a gander; you can't go too wrong." Sherlock drew in a breath, but all he let out was a sigh. Finally, he spoke._

_"You and I… we're really similar." Beck smiled; that was a bit of an understatement. Sherlock seemed to realize it too. "Well, okay, we're exactly the same, except you're a girl with a different accent."_

_"Yeah, we are, aren't we?" she responded. "But I don't think that's what's bothering you." He shook his head._

_"I don't get it!" he burst out suddenly. "If we're so similar, how come your dad loves you and my dad…" He sighed again and stared off into the distance. Beck felt a stab in her chest, bowing her head. She really, honestly didn't know how to respond to that; she didn't even know how to start answering that. She gave a tired, confused sigh of her own. _

_"I don't know. I'd love more than anything to be able to give you an answer but I can't. But I do know one thing- it ain't your fault, it's your dad's. What all's going wrong right now ain't anyone's fault but his. So don't you start thinkin' any of this is 'cause of you, you hear?" The two sat on the stump for a while until Beck's father leaned out of the front door and hollered,_

_"Food!" Beck gave a small laugh._

_"And, that would be the call to dinner. You coming?" He nodded and followed her into the house. Later that month, the divorce between Sherlock's mother and father was finalized- they had well and truly split up now. Sherlock hoped that this would mean his father would be gone, that just maybe he'd get lucky for once on his life. It wasn't to be- it wasn't his father who left the house, it was his mother._

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><p>Beck woke early, glanced at the calendar, and steeled her resolve. Robert wasn't being released until that evening, so Beck found herself pacing the tent until finally she cracked and caught a ride into London- it's where she was headed originally, she may as well just go there and get the first part over with.<p>

Some confrontations had to be done in private, or as close to private as one could manage in a police station, so she was hoping to avoid the Holmes brothers. Well actually, apart from Sherlock, in her current attitude Beck could be more than happy to avoid a Holmes in any iteration for the rest of her life.

Her mind worked its way through the mess that was the course of Sherlock's childhood; after his mother had left the house Sherlock had been more withdrawn than ever. It was just him and Mycroft (who was unaware of the situation) in the house with Robert, and times had gotten harder than ever. Still, even then, Sherlock could get some refuge by just staying as close to his brother as possible, but when Sherlock turned ten, Mycroft (then seventeen) had left for university. Beck's heart had just about sank through the floor when she heard that- now _she_ was the last line of defense against the abuse, and she couldn't even admit she knew about it without putting herself in danger and thus out of the equation.

When Robert had finally been arrested, the police had come to Beck to take a statement from her of everything she knew. She figured out later that most of the prosecutor's information had come from her- Sherlock had refused to open up to them.

She knew she had nothing to be ashamed of- it wasn't her fault what had happened, and she had done her best to prevent it. Still, though, she blamed herself. How could she not? If she had just said something, to anybody, his father might not have… No, she couldn't dwell on it, that would help nobody. What was past was past, and there was no changing it.

Of course, as she had told Mycroft the other day in the café, she might make a mistake once, but she sure as hell didn't make it twice. She would keep his father away from him this time, no matter what she had to do. She knew, logically, that Sherlock was just as tough as his father now, and that he wasn't a child anymore, but still, she worried. She leaned back on the bench and jammed her hands into her pockets. She was still carrying her father's knife.

* * *

><p>She wasn't the only one who was worried; Mycroft sat at his desk, looking through some incredibly dull business file from Eastern Europe, which he quickly pushed to the side. He could do business later. Right now he was worried about his little brother, even more so than he was normally. He hadn't been lying to John when he stated that he worried constantly about Sherlock- he did, and he always had, especially when they were children. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had never been able to put up a face of being able to get along with people, of being able to act normal. His differences were apparent from the time he was little.<p>

Mycroft had known that it upset his father that his younger son was such a _freak_, but he had never guessed the extent of it. Not out of any misplaced loyalty to his father; though he had never thought Robert would go so far, Mycroft had never really trusted the older man, sensing something just below the surface to be worried about. As it turned out, he was right. No, what had stopped him from finding out was that Sherlock himself was too good an actor. He had fooled everyone, even his own elder brother.

The question of why still troubled Mycroft from time to time- why had Sherlock not trusted him, why had he not told anyone what was going on? He could only suppose it was because the young boy had never been able to trust in anyone enough to confide in them, but Mycroft still didn't know _why_. Even twelve years after his father's imprisonment, Sherlock had never spoken a word to anyone (least of all Mycroft) about the details of his father's abuse, save the police who wrote the case file. Even then, Sherlock had only provided the specifics of anything that Beck couldn't tell the police herself, which was precious little.

Mycroft felt an acute sense of failure when he thought of Sherlock's treatment at the hands of their father- he was observant, and smart as a whip; he should have noticed what was going on, and to this day he still couldn't understand how he hadn't. He should have protected his little brother and he hadn't. Instead, Sherlock's only protector had been just a girl his own age, who by all rights had no reason to be involved in the conflict at all. But it had fallen to her to do what Mycroft hadn't.

He had always known that Beck thought Mycroft didn't like her, and at first it had been true; with her accent and her attitude and her dress, Mycroft hadn't felt that she was the best influence on his brother. She was far too much like him for comfort. And the two had stuck together like glue- every time Mycroft had seen Sherlock after he left for university, Beck had been with him.

Of course, he hadn't learned until later that Beck spent so much time around Sherlock to try and stop his father from beating him, figuring that if she was there, he wouldn't be able to do anything without giving his hand away. After… Well, once everything had come to light, Mycroft's opinion of Beck had greatly increased and while the two had parted on slightly cold terms, their association had now calmed into a mutual respect of each other, if not anything friendly.

Anthea's knock on the door broke him out of his thoughts. "Sir? I just thought you'd like to know, he's being released at six forty-five." He nodded to her.

"Thank you." She hesitated momentarily, not leaving like she normally would.

"Are you going to go there, sir?"

"I don't quite know. I'm sure Rebecca will be there the moment he's let out; I'll let her have the first run at it. I need to speak with my little brother first. I don't want things to get out of hand…"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: So... sorry it took me so long, but I had two exams and more homework and the release scene took me _for ever_ to get right. My apologies. So you guys should review since I went to so much trouble and all. And just because I like to know what you think. Special thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter (especially to Fuseaction, who reviewed like every freaking thing I ever wrote O.o). Y'all made me warm and fuzzy on the inside. Oh, and just by the by, it _is_ his father in the last three paragraphs (with the cliffhanger I just couldn't resist putting in). Just wanted to clear that up so there's no confusion. ^-^**

* * *

><p>He had to tell John; he didn't have a choice. Sherlock knew his father would show up at some point, probably soon, and he owed John an explanation for that before it happened, not after. Still, though, he hesitated. He knew that he was just as tall and just as strong as the older man- any fights between them now would be a fair match. Well, wouldn't that be unique… But even when he reminded himself of that, he still kept his mouth shut. He was too proud to admit that it was because of fear.<p>

"Hey Sherlock?" He started slightly at the sound of John's voice, but the doctor didn't seem to notice. "Are you going to take the watch today?" Sherlock nodded distractedly and shook his head to himself, attempting to clear out the thoughts.

"I'll keep track of his movements. He's due into work at nine, so I doubt he'll try and engage in whatever he's doing." It was far easier to watch somebody unnoticed when you were in the middle of the city, so Sherlock had almost no trouble securing a spot across the street from Brennan's workplace. Of course, he wouldn't have anyway, even if it had been in the suburb, but he wasn't one to complain when something made the job easier. He glanced at his watch every now and again; he didn't know what time his father was due out of jail, but he had a nasty feeling that he'd find out soon enough after it happened.

Brennan did all of nothing during the day, getting out of work late, at five forty-five rather than five thirty. Sherlock deftly followed him back, settling in on the bench John had occupied the previous day and opening an evening paper he had no intention of reading. The two men had realized that, spectacularly unobservant neighbors aside, they were bound to be noticed sooner or later, so they had arranged with Lestrade to have some police officers come out and keep an eye on the place while they traded off. The first one wasn't due to arrive until eight o' clock, so Sherlock settled in and kept his watch. He knew that right now he was a pretty useless watchman, unable to focus on the task at hand; mentally, he snapped at himself. Emotion wasn't functional.

* * *

><p>Beck was washing her hands when she ran into Sally Donovan. She had just gotten out of the bathroom, and a quick check of her watch told her that it was six twenty-five. "Oh, hey," she greeted the other woman. "How're you doing?"<p>

"Good," Sally replied. "Well, as good as you can do when you spend all your time looking for murderers. I wasn't expecting to see you here- I thought you'd already been cleared." She sounded surprised, so Beck quickly responded,

"Oh, it's not to do with that; I have been. Different city, nice alibi. I'm here for something else." She gave a razor thin smile. "Just some old personal business, but I've got a few minutes till then." She followed Sally back out of the bathroom, not intending to carry the conversation any further, but to her surprise, Sally spoke.

"So, you knew the Freak, didn't you? When you were kids, Lestrade was talking about it." Beck gave her a cold sideways look, knowing that she was talking about Sherlock.

"You shouldn't be callin' him that," she shot back. "It ain't polite." She tried to relax, reminding herself that there was no way Sally could know about Sherlock's past, but she was strung so thin with anticipation that she started to lose her temper. "Yeah, we knew each other, knew each other for years till my dad got sent back to Texas when I was sixteen."

Sally nodded, taken aback by the ferocity of Beck's response. The idea of Sherlock having an actual friend was so strange to her that it didn't occur to her that Beck might take offense to her nickname for him. The only other person who did was John (although Lestrade wasn't too terribly fond of it either), and she had learned to avoid calling Sherlock a freak in front of him pretty quick. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, it's just a habit. So, if you don't mind my asking, was he always like he is now?"

"Uh, yes and no," Beck responded. "In some ways he's so different, and in some ways he's like he was when we were seven. And don't ask me if that's good or bad, cause I'm still trying to figure that one out myself."

"You two are a lot alike, aren't you? Was it always like that?" Beck nodded, so Sally continued. "So what changed? I mean, why is he so…"

"Antisocial?" Beck filled in with a hint of a grin. "It's a long story. See, my parents… they never wanted normal kids, which is good, cause they sure didn't get 'em. So they loved me and my little brother like they would any other child they'd have had and always raised us to believe that there was nothing wrong with being different and that we ought a be proud of ourselves. His parents… they weren't like that. They came from one of those old, respectable families that's real invested in looking proper, and they expected their children to be absolutely normal. And Sherlock just wasn't. His mother did the best of it, but his father didn't take it well. It wasn't easy for him growing up. And that's all I can tell you without saying things that aren't mine to say." She glanced at her watch- six forty. She bit her lip, steeled her spine, and turned back to face Sally. "Now, if you'll excuse me Sergeant, I have to go start a fight."

She made it to where Robert was being released at six forty-five on the dot, and leaned against the wall, waiting for him to come out. She didn't know what to expect honestly- smoke and hellfire sprung to mind, but it was far simpler than that. He just plain old walked on out. Beck tilted the brim of her cowboy hat down lower, staring holes in his back as he finished filling out the paperwork. He didn't notice her as she turned around, so she gave a low whistle, like somebody did when they were trying to get attention.

"Did you miss me, you old bastard?" she drawled, kicking her accent up a notch just to irritate him. He wheeled to face her as she continued to lean nonchalantly against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She pushed herself up and tilted her head.

"Aw, you're a smart enough fellow, can't you guess? We have a touch of what they call 'unfinished business' between us, cliche as that sounds." She maintained her relaxed affect, but there was a thinly covered coldness underneath. Truth be told, she was wound up tight as a spring, but she would never in a million years show him that. He narrowed his eyes and glared at her.

"Yes, as I recall, you got me arrested and sent to prison for twelve years."

"Yep, I did, and I'd do it all over again and keep you in there longer if only I could!" The two were now about six inches apart, Robert towering over the average-height Beck. She looked up at him sarcastically. "Ooh, tall man is tall, ain't he? I'm not an easy scare, Robert, you should have known that by now." She rolled her eyes and retreated a couple steps. Her anger was becoming caution for her friend now, and she felt the need to get to Baker Street as fast as she could, before something went wrong. Robert sensed her backing off and decided to get one last jab in there.

"I hear my son's been having an interesting time. Maybe I'll go pay him a visit." At this, Beck spun back around, rage flaring up inside her along with protectiveness.

"Now you just look right here, you knee-walkin' drunk old bastard- I don't care what you do, I don't care where you go, but I swear on my family's honor that if you come anywhere _near_ your son, or your other son, or me, or anyone else I happen to even vaguely recognize in this city, I won't put you back in prison, I'll put you in the hospital!"

"Do you realize that you just threatened me in front of a room full of police?" She gave him an icy smile.

"Yeah, sure do; that's how they know I ain't kidding." He gave her a venomous smile and left the police station. She muttered a few words her mother never taught her (she'd learned them all from her dad) and pulled out her phone. She cursed again when she remembered that she didn't have Sherlock's mobile number; she had to get to Baker Street before Robert did. Unfortunately, Robert was right in one respect- she _had_ just threatened him in front of most of Scotland Yard. They weren't about to let her walk out of there without determining how serious she'd been.

"I don't have time for this!" she protested. "My friend's in trouble and I need to help him." The commotion she and Robert had caused had drawn most of the officers, including Lestrade, who made his way through the thicket of cops to defuse the situation. It was slightly ironic to him, that after all the times he'd done that for Sherlock, he was doing it for Sherlock's friend now too.

"Hold on a moment, look I know her, she's not going to hurt anybody." After a few more reassurances, the crowd dispersed and Beck turned urgently to Lestrade.

"Thanks for your help, but I have to go."

"Hang on a minute, what were you saying about Sherlock being in trouble?" Beck bit her lip, not wanting to be any later than possible, but knowing that Lestrade wasn't just going to let her walk out without an explanation.

"It's nothing to do with the case, Inspector, but I _have_ to get over to Baker Street before somebody else does, it really can't wait. I'll explain later, I promise," she called over her shoulder as she dashed out the door, "but check your records and you'll figure it out." Lestrade stared after her with a sinking feeling. Whatever Sherlock had gotten himself into this time seemed to be getting personal, and Lestrade was worried about the detective, and about his friend.

* * *

><p>John stared over the case notes for what seemed like the ten thousandth time, still finding nothing new in them. He sighed, shook his head, and flipped the folder shut, tossing it on the coffee table in front of him. He checked his watch- nineteen hundred and forty. Sherlock wasn't due back for another twenty minutes, when the police unit would take over the tedious job of waiting for Sean Brennan to do something even vaguely suspicious and finally give the two men a break. He stretched his back and wandered over to the window, looking out at the street below.<p>

He wasn't looking for anything in particular, but one man caught his eye nonetheless, mostly because he just looked like trouble. John had spent a lot of time in an active combat zone and a lot more time dealing with recruits; he could spot someone with chaos on the brain from a mile, and this guy stuck out like bright red flag. He looked to be just a little under sixty, tall, with white-grey hair, and John had the nastiest feeling that he was headed for their flat- call it instinct, or just experience, but sure enough, the man stopped right outside Baker Street.

Rather than trying to knock, the man simply started pulling on the handle. John hurried downstairs. Mrs. Hudson was out of town, and John was glad, because he could sense trouble coming. He mentally prepared himself for a fight, and then cautiously reached for the door handle.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: And now the resolution to the evil cliffhanger of evil and the return of BAMF!protective!John… My great thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, especially to CryptoSquirrel, who pointed out the fact that I might have, kind of, maybe changed the villain's name halfway through the story… whoops. O.o His name is now officially back to being Seth Russell. He's actually kind of the secondary villain behind Sherlock's dad, so hopefully it won't be too confusing… whoops. (And just by the by, the reason I don't name Sherlock's dad till the end of the chapter is cause it's from John's respective and John doesn't know who he is till then. If that makes even a bit of sense.) ^-^**

* * *

><p>Wondering briefly to himself if this was a particularly good idea (not that he spent too much time wondering- he hadn't gotten where he was in life by doing the safe thing) he nevertheless reached forward and pulled the door open swiftly, already taking a dislike to the man outside. "Can I help you with something?" He tried to keep his voice polite, but there was a definite edge to it. He remained in the doorway until the other man spoke, somewhat reluctant to let him in the flat.<p>

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," the mystery man replied.

"He's not here right now, he's out for a while." John decided to stretch out the time a little- truth be told, Sherlock was due back from Seth Russell's house in less than twenty minutes, but he felt no need to tell this man that. "If you have a case for him you can leave your mobile number here and he'll call you back later."

"He knows me," the man responded, as if that were reason enough for him to wait. "Just wanted to see what that bastard's been up to since he put me in prison." His face darkened, but John's darkened likewise, his attitude changing from cautious irritation to veiled hostility. He was getting rid of this man, he didn't care what it took.

"Well, see, I happen to know him too, and I know that if he put you in prison for something then you probably deserved it. Clear off, and don't come back or I'll call the police." It was a thin hope that the man would actually leave after one warning; he advanced forwards, getting right up in John's face, but the shorter man stood his ground without even blinking.

"You can't tell me what to do!" the other man growled. "I've waited twelve years to get back at him."

"Yeah, well you're going to have to wait a lot longer!" John returned, dropping any pretense of civility in exchange for the tone he'd used in the military to order recruits around. "I don't care if you've waited _twenty_ years, I'm not going to let you anywhere near him!" The older man grabbed him by the shirtfront, hoping to intimidate him, but it didn't work- John reached forward and returned the favor, using his iron grip to stop the other man from retreating.

The two men glared daggers at each other, neither one willing to yield their hold. John didn't know who the hell was on his doorstep right now but he could tell just from his eyes that he hated the detective. This stiffened his resolve not to let the other man through at any cost, and he braced himself against the floor as the white-haired man tried to push his way into the hall. "I'll get to him eventually," the other man growled.

"Yeah, good luck with that," John returned. His voice was practically burning with sarcasm. "I know at least four people who would go to great lengths to keep you very far away from him and they all happen to be in this city right now."

"Well it's just you on your own for now, isn't it?" the other man retorted venomously. The implications of his words were clear- he'd fight his way in if he had to. John gave him a small but equally deadly smile. He didn't think anything would come of the man's threat, but he still prepared himself, subtly altering his stance for the best combat position and figuring out what he could use to his gain. At the same time he responded,

"Yeah it is, for now, but let's get one thing clear: I've dealt with worse than you before and that was without the home field advantage. If you want a fight, you'll get a fight, but I'll win." If voices could have killed, the other man would have dropped dead right there on the doorstep. As it was, he sensed the truth (and the guarantee) in John's words and realized that he would have to wait; this fellow was a little too determined. Reluctantly, he narrowed his eyes and started to release his grip on John's collar. John returned the favor, giving his shirt one last good twist before letting go of him with a small shove.

"I guess I'll just have to come back later," he muttered. He turned away, but it was just a feint- he swung back around to try and force his way in, but John had been expecting it, bracing himself against the door frame and meeting the other man with a good thud to his shoulder. Suddenly, a voice with a strong Texas accent rang out towards them.

"What part of 'stay the hell away' did you not get through your head?" Both men turned to face Beck, who was running down the street towards them. "Go. Away. And don't come back." As he turned towards her, she wasted no time, pulling out her pocket knife and flipping it open. Her glare was possibly even colder than John's, and finally he retreated. When he was out of sight, Beck snapped the knife shut and went about six shades paler than she already was. She gave John a shaky laugh.

"Sorry 'bout that. Meant to beat him here, but I couldn't quite make it."

"Um, do you mind telling me who 'that' was? And here, come in, you look like you need to sit down." John led Beck inside, where she took a seat on the couch, rubbing her face in exhaustion. John's brain was finally starting to work out the dates involved, and he realized that something was really, really up. "That man, he said Sherlock put him in prison." Beck nodded.

"He did. The guy just got out today."

"But he said it was twelve years ago; that makes no sense. Sherlock would've been sixteen when that happened. That seems a little young, even for him."

"No, that's the right age. I remember when it happened. It wasn't pretty; that guy really hates him. Hey, look, Sherlock's brother is probably gonna call you in a couple minutes. When he does, do you mind asking him how the hell he let this happen?" Beck's voice grew angry. John was getting exasperated himself.

"Look, that's all well and good, but _who is that guy?_ You know, Sherlock knows, Mycroft knows, when is somebody going to tell me?" Beck arched her back tiredly.

"I'll let Sherlock tell you; he's got no choice now." Her eyes widened abruptly. "When's he supposed to get back? Do you know?"

"Eight; don't worry, he's coming back the opposite direction from where that man left, I'd have gone after him otherwise." It was now a couple minutes after eight, and Beck realized that she needed to make her presence scarce- some conversations were better had in solitude, and if she had to hazard a guess, she'd be getting a call from that Detective Inspector soon. He'd probably want to talk with her again. She turned back to John.

"Look, I'm gonna go; you two need to talk in private, and I'm probably gonna get a call from your friend the Inspector soon. I don't reckon that guy'll be back before tomorrow, otherwise I'd stick around." She left the flat, going down the front steps just as Sherlock came up to them. She stopped him before he could enter. "You have to tell him," she said bluntly. "I wouldn't rush you otherwise, but Sherlock, he came here." Sherlock gritted his jaw.

"Already?" She nodded. "Alright, I'll tell him. Are you staying?" She shook her head.

"Nah, I figured it'd be more polite to give you guys some privacy. Besides, I'm due back at the cop shop to explain why I started a fight in the middle of their holding area." She gave a sarcastic smile, clapped him on the shoulder, and started towards the police station. Her head was bowed, and she was lost in thought as she walked. There was tension building in the air, like a storm cloud coming to a head, and she knew that soon the lightning would strike.

It took her longer to get back to the police station than it had taken her to get to Baker Street; mostly because she wasn't running on the way back. Sure enough, as she was walking up, her mobile phone rang in her pocket and it was Lestrade on the other end of the line. "Do you mind coming back in and telling me what all that was about?" She gave a slight, unamused laugh.

"I knew you were gonna call me soon. I'm right outside, I'll be up in a minute." She reentered Scotland Yard, nodding to the secretary and making her way up the now-familiar path to Lestrade's office. She knocked on his open door, taking a seat.

"So, dare I ask, who was that you almost got yourself arrested over?" he asked her.

"It's a long story, but what it amounts to is that he and I don't get along. At all, really. As a matter of fact, we pretty much hate each other. He got put in the can right after I left England and he was just released today." Lestrade frowned.

"But you said you left when you were a teenager; what on earth were you doing getting involved with criminals?" Beck gave a harsh laugh.

"Oh, rest assured it was entirely unintentional. And if I could've gotten him thrown in jail eight or nine years before that I would've." Lestrade took a minute to digest her cryptic answer before he asked,

"Does it have anything to do with Sherlock? When you ran off you yelled something about beating somebody over to Baker Street- is Sherlock in trouble?" Beck decided to give the honest answer.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On how much he trusts his friends. Look, Inspector, I'll give you the brief version of it, but that's the best I can do- this guy, the one I had a throw-down with, Sherlock and I knew him back in the day. And when we were sixteen years old, we managed to get him sent to prison. He stayed there for twelve years serving off various charges until finally he was released this afternoon." Lestrade shook his head.

"So, now he's got a criminal chasing him again… Do you think this man's a danger to him?" Beck shrugged and shook her head.

"Like I said, it all depends on how much he trusts his friends; if he does, then he'll probably be okay. But I don't think he can make it on his own. We'll just have to wait and see, I guess."

* * *

><p>John was seated in his usual chair, chin resting on his clasped hands, staring off into space when Sherlock ascended the stairs. He didn't know whether he should break the silence or let Sherlock tell him about what was going on, but some small instinct told him that in this case it was probably better to keep his mouth shut and let Sherlock do this on his own time.<p>

The taller man moved over to the window and looked down into the street, not entirely sure how to begin this. Well, truth be told, he wasn't sure at all how to even begin telling John the truth about his father. He hesitated, looking for an answer inside his brain, but it seemed to be abandoning him in this area. He knew what John would tell him in this situation- say what you feel. The trouble was, Sherlock was feeling pretty empty at this stage of the game. He drew in a breath and decided that it was time to take the plunge. "I ran into Beck when she was leaving."

John started at the sound of the detective's voice, but Sherlock continued staring out the window. "Yeah, she said she had to get back to Scotland Yard. Did she… tell you what happened?" Sherlock nodded. "Look, Sherlock, I know you've been hiding something and I know something's been worrying you. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You don't need to keep it to yourself. I know it has something to do with that man who was here earlier, I can guess that much on my own. I want to help you but I can't do that if you refuse to tell me what's wrong." Sherlock continued to stare at the street, but he finally dragged out a response.

"That man, the one who was here; when I was sixteen I got him sent to prison for twelve years. He was released this afternoon. I would have told you before, but I didn't know he'd come here so soon. I thought he'd wait at least a day or two." John nodded slowly, knowing that his friend was gearing up to tell him something important.

"Beck told me all that before she left." Sherlock sighed to himself and realized that it was now or never.

"That man is my father."


	14. Chapter 14

Of every possible thing John had been expecting Sherlock to say, that certainly wasn't on the list. He had no idea how to respond to something like that, so he kept quiet and let Sherlock do the talking on his own time. Before either of them could continue, however, John's phone began to ring, just as Beck had predicted it would. "That will be my brother," Sherlock remarked caustically. John looked at his phone for a second before hitting the decline button.

"I can call him back later," he responded. Sherlock continued to face the street, not looking at John. That made it easier to speak, somehow.

"My father is a remarkably unappealing fellow. But of course you've met him, haven't you? He was always like that, but especially so for me." He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "He never liked me, even before-" He stopped short. This was the moment of truth; it was one thing to admit that your father didn't like you. It was quite another to admit that he'd abused you for years. He took in a deep breath and forced all emotion out of his voice, speaking robotically, trying (unsuccessfully) to detach himself from the moment.

"He used to hit me. All the time, starting from when I was just a little over seven. Beck was the only one who knew about it, not even my mother or brother did. She tried to protect me the best she could, but there was only so much she could do; I wouldn't let her say anything. I didn't want to put her in danger." He laughed sarcastically again, neglecting to mention that he _had_, in fact. It wasn't as if he could have helped it; things had gone their own way and he could only suppose that what had happened was inevitable. "Well, more than I was already."

John didn't interrupt his friend, just looked at his back while he spoke. His chest was tight, a combination of sad and furious. It hit him in a flash now that this was why the detective had been so agitated the last few days; how else would he be when his abusive father was being released from jail? It also leant a whole new perspective to his one, brief encounter with the man that added to the sort of protective rage that was building inside him- he couldn't comprehend how anybody could call their own son a bastard, or bring themselves to beat a seven year old boy or threaten his only friend.

"She finally convinced me to go to the police and try to get rid of him. It worked." _After a fashion,_ he added silently. "I honestly didn't think that he would come to look for me so soon, neither did Beck… Mycroft's going to call you again in about thirty seconds, you should answer it this time before he sends somebody over." Sherlock turned away from the window and retreated to the kitchen, and John realized that he was shutting down. He wished the taller man wouldn't; he could tell it was killing the detective to keep it all inside, but John also knew that forcing the issue would be the worst possible way to proceed.

As if on cue, his phone rang again with Mycroft on the other end of the line. He couldn't get out of a conversation this time, he knew, and like Beck he was more than ready to find out exactly how on earth the man who supposedly controlled the British government couldn't keep Robert away from his son. He glanced at the thin form of the detective for a brief second and then went downstairs, deciding to take the call outside. He needed to give Sherlock some space.

"What?" he shot into the receiver tiredly.

"I've heard about your encounter this evening." John cut him off before he could continue.

"Yeah, and you'd better have a damn good explanation for how you let that happen!"

"I suppose my brother has told you about who he is?"

"He's told me enough," John replied. "But that still doesn't explain why you didn't keep him away from here. We just got lucky that I was the only one home then." He leaned against the fence, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He wasn't hanging up the phone without an explanation.

"I tried, but my brother and I's intelligence did not spring from nowhere," Mycroft replied. "I can assure you that this will not happen again. I plan on having a… conversation with him very soon. Much like Rebecca, I don't make mistakes twice, I assure you." John was about to hang up on him, thoroughly done with the conversation, when Mycroft said one last thing- "Watch him for me, will you doctor? I dare say he trusts you rather more than he trusts me, especially right now."

John gave a short laugh down the phone. "I always watch him; why would now be any different?" He hung up the phone, sighed to himself, and went back into the flat. The night had closed in now and it was nearing nine in the evening. John sat in his normal chair and stared off into space, wondering to himself what exactly Mycroft was planning to say to his father during their 'conversation'. Whatever it was, John was willing to bet that it would have an effect. He shook his head and went into the kitchen. Sherlock was still in there, seemingly looking over some experiment he had running, but he was staring straight forward, practically looking through the cabinet.

"You should get some sleep," John told him quietly. "You've been awake for five days, that's pushing it even for you. Lestrade will call us if Seth Russell does anything suspicious. And just to clear it up, I am _so_ not above putting a sleeping pill in your coffee." He smiled at his friend, trying to lighten the atmosphere, if only a little. Sherlock's lips twitched ever so slightly in response, but he looked reluctant to sleep nevertheless.

Finally, though, after a great deal more convincing, John got the worn-out detective to agree to at least try and get some rest. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Sherlock was out cold within ten minutes of lying down on the couch, looking calmer than John had seen him for over a week.

* * *

><p>Mycroft turned away from the window to face one of his agents. "I trust there was no trouble?" The man gave a small grin.<p>

"Nothing I couldn't handle, sir. He's got a lovely mood, that one. Would you like me to wait in here?" Mycroft shook his head.

"No, I'm rather afraid that this is a private conversation, but I would be much obliged if you would wait outside the door; just in case, of course." The man nodded once and retreated, leaving the door open behind him. Mycroft stayed facing the window as he heard his father enter the room.

"What did you want?" the older man said. Mycroft finally turned to face him, as contained as ever, but still as angry as he had ever been seen.

"What I want is fairly simple, _father_." He used the last word scathingly, as though he didn't count Robert as his father any more, which he really didn't. "I want you to stay as far away from my little brother as _he_ decides is sufficient and not come anywhere near him for the rest of your life." Robert glared at his elder son.

"Oh, really? You expect me to just walk away? He put me in prison, Mycroft, and I'm not too happy about it!"

"Quite frankly, I don't care how you feel about anything. He put you in prison because you spent nine years making his life a misery until he finally found the strength to stand up to you. If I could have managed it, you would still be in jail right now, but unfortunately even I don't have that much influence." It was true; Mycroft might very well have been able to keep people out of jail if he wished it, but he couldn't keep them in longer.

"He owes me one."

"He doesn't owe you a single thing," Mycroft responded icily. "If anything, you owe him approximately a decade."

"I'll find a way to get to him," Robert shot out. Mycroft's face grew even colder than it had been initially.

"Perhaps I should clear up my initial desire, father, because you don't seem to have quite understood it- if you attempt to come into contact with Sherlock at any point or come anywhere closer to him than he believes is enough, I will personally ensure that you will not be able to find a house or a job anywhere in this country. France can have you for all I care!" He wouldn't normally have included that last sentence, but a small portion of his anger had finally slipped up through the surface.

The two men stared each other down for a minute or two before Robert realized that his son was being deadly serious with his banishment threat. He glared at Mycroft. "Since when did you start sticking up for him? You used to be the better son." Mycroft gave him something that was halfway between a sneer and a sigh.

"Hmm, well, going by those standards I'm not entirely sure that should be true. I have other business to attend to. We'll see where you're welcome in this country when the time comes; until then, rest assured that one of my employees will be following you at all times and it is most definitely in your best interests to go nowhere that you don't have to." The two men traded one final glare before Robert left. When he was gone, Mycroft turned back to the window, staring out at the ground pensively. Robert had asked when he had started to stick up for his brother; it was an honest question. He certainly hadn't when it counted, not when he should have seen the signs that had somehow only been spotted by a seven year old girl. He supposed that his constant spying attempts on his brother now were his way of trying to make up for what he hadn't done in the past. Something of a futile attempt, he couldn't help but think. He shook his head and turned away from the window. He would have to pay a visit to Baker Street tomorrow. He could only hope that John Watson could hold down the fort until then.

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><p><em>Sherlock was only twelve years old when his father began to refuse to feed him; it was his latest form of punishment for whatever perceived problem the boy had caused this time, to force him to go without food for however long he decided was appropriate. At first it was just for one meal, or maybe two, but then with increasing frequency he'd go a whole day or more without being allowed any food.<em>

_It was at the end of one of these days that he slipped out of his window and made his way to Beck's house; his father was stone-drunk, yet again, so he wasn't worried about getting caught, but he still hurried. It wasn't safe to go wandering around at night, even though he knew the way to her house like the back of his hand. _

_He loved it outside at night; he always had, far more than during the day. It was probably a reflexive result of the insomnia that had plagued him for as long as he could remember, like his brain made him enjoy the darkness so that being up all night didn't make him go crazy. He stood outside her front door for a while, not wanting to knock and wake them up, but he hadn't been allowed food for two days and the effects were beginning to show- he had adopted a constant shivering and he couldn't pay attention to anything. He had to get food from somewhere._

_Hesitantly, he knocked quietly on the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it was Beck who opened it and not her parents. She looked him up and down, concern evident on her face. "You look like hell," she whispered. "Mom's asleep and dad got called out to the flight line late. Come on in, but we need to keep our voices down." She led him into the sitting room, rubbing the tiredness out of her eyes._

_"Do you have any food? I haven't eaten in two days." Beck frowned._

_"You mean he hasn't let you eat in two days," she responded. "Wait here, I'll get you somethin' from the fridge." She got him some food and sat back thinking while he ate. When he was finished, she said, "You need to stay here for the night." Sherlock's eyes widened._

_"I can't, if he wakes up and I'm not there I don't even want to think about what kind of trouble I'd be in." _

_"Sherlock, you can't walk back to your house, it's after three in the morning! All kinds of stuff could happen to you. Sleep here, dad can give us both a ride to school in the morning, and I'll walk you back home after that. Please, I don't want somethin' worse to happen to you." Beck knew it was going to be awkward to explain to her parents how exactly Sherlock had turned up in their house overnight, but there was just no way Beck was going to let him walk around at that time of night._

_"Okay, I'll stay," he finally conceded. He stared at the table, lost in thought and looking miserable. Beck leaned back, trying to think of a way to cheer him up._

_"Do you like the stars?" she asked. He nodded, finally smiling._

_"Yeah, I like looking at them, but I don't know much about their names or anything like that." She smiled back._

_"Well, you don't need to just to enjoy them. Come with me; we're going into the back yard." She led him through the back door into the yard, pulling the curtain shut behind them but leaving the door open so they could get back in. She plopped herself down on the grass and motioned for Sherlock to join her. He did so, looking up at the night sky. _

_"There are so many stars out here," he remarked in awe. Beck smiled._

_"Yep, I love 'em." They were silent for a few more minutes, until Sherlock spoke again._

_"I'm worried about what he'll do tomorrow." Beck breathed in deeply and then sighed; truth be told, she was worried about what his father would do tomorrow too, but all the same, she responded,_

_"Well, that's tomorrow. We'll worry about it then. You need a break." They stayed outside watching the stars until Beck's father got home from the flight line. He arched his eyebrow at the open door and had a sneaking suspicion he knew which member of his family was going outside at four in the morning. Sure enough, he smiled down at his daughter and her friend (odd, he didn't remember her mentioning him coming over), asleep on the grass next to each other. He shook his head, picked up the children one after the other, and laid Sherlock on the couch and his daughter on her bed, covering them both before shutting the back door. Then he scrubbed off the grease, changed out of his flight suit, and went to bed himself. At long last, everything was quiet. _


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Man, this one fought me. O.o Sorry it's so desperately late, but between it's resistance and two exams and a few personal issues, I got really delayed in writing it. So, you know how I like reviews? That hasn't changed. I only got one on the last chapter, which made me slightly sad-face, so thank you to the one person who did review, and to the rest of you *coughcough* take the hint and tell me what you think. I had a difficult time balancing being emotional with not being over-emotional, and I'd like to know how y'all think I did. Anyways, enjoy the slightly belated chapter and have an awesome Wednesday! ^-^**

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><p><em>Sherlock knew from the moment he woke up on Beck's couch that he was going to have a bad day when he got home. His father was almost certainly awake by now, and Sherlock knew that he would be furious when the boy got home. Beck's father got the two children up for school in the morning, neatly dodging the dirty sock Beck threw at his face when he attempted to rouse her. He looked over at Sherlock.<em>

_"She wakes up in such a lovely mood," he deadpanned, before turning back to the door. "Oi, midget, you're gettin' out of bed, it's just a question of how!" He entered the room and the sounds of them trading well-intentioned insults filtered through. In spite of his fearful mood, Sherlock smiled a little listening to them. Finally, rolling his eyes, Richard came back out. "Breakfast is up whenever you're done getting ready," he called over his shoulder. He seemed to suddenly remember that Sherlock was there. "Oh, hey. You want breakfast? We got thirty minutes before I gotta dump you two off at the public education center." _

_Sherlock nodded wordlessly and followed him into the kitchen. It was just him and Beck's father at the table, and Sherlock felt distinctly out of place even though Richard didn't seem to notice anything. Of course, if he did, he was probably deliberately ignoring it. "Do you have to work today?" Sherlock asked him, trying to break up the slightly awkward silence._

_"Nope, not after that ridiculous call I got last night, I get a day off." He leaned back in his chair and coughed conspicuously. "So stop me if I'm wrong here, but you were not at my house yesterday evening." Sherlock searched quickly for an excuse to make up on the fly. _

_"I was helping Beck with a school project about astronomy. We didn't mean to fall asleep, and I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about it." Richard arched an eyebrow at him, giving a clear 'what do you take me for, an idiot?' look. He shook his head, not pressing the matter further._

_"Nice try, little man," he responded. He checked his watch. "I'm gonna go round up the other squirt and then we'll get going." He left the kitchen to get Beck while Sherlock stared at the table, heart racing. He knew the lie had been a paper-thin one and half of him had been expecting to be hit, even though he knew Richard was a better man than Robert. He swallowed down his anxiety and followed Beck and her father out the door. _

_That day just had all the makings of something that was going to turn out awful. He spent the whole class time too nervous to concentrate on his schoolwork, while the other kids, as they were so prone to do, either completely ignored him or launched their own insults at him. Finally, the school day was over, but the trouble was only beginning to form. Beck's father gave the two a ride back from school as well, stopping first outside Sherlock's house._

_"I'll walk you to the door," Beck offered, jumping out of the car before anyone could say otherwise. Sherlock had gone two or three shades paler in anticipation of the chaos to come. He breathed in deeply and stared at the door, while Beck stood next to him. She slipped her hand into his and the two children headed for the door. They stood in front of it silently for a minute._

_"My dad's not at home right now," Sherlock said quietly. Beck once again thought to herself how much she wanted Sherlock to go back to her house and be as far away from this place as humanly possible.  
><em>

_"Do you have a key?" she asked. Sherlock nodded. "You know, you can come back to my house if you want." He shook his head wordlessly; he needed to go back now, before it got any worse for him. He knew his father's anger would only build the longer he was gone. She squeezed his hand one last time before letting go of it, fighting the urge to run back to the car, get her father, and have _him _teach a lesson to Sherlock's dad. Then they could see how well Robert handled someone his own size instead of a child. _

_"I'll see you tomorrow." Sherlock let go of her hand and unlocked his door. He had two hours before his father was home from work. The wait was almost worse._

_Richard didn't even start the car when his daughter got in. "So, you want to tell me why he was sleeping in our backyard? And while you're at it, I'd like to know why _you_ were with him." Beck sighed, trying to fabricate a believable excuse._

_"I was showing him the stars, and we really didn't mean to fall asleep. He was here 'cause his dad had… work really late and he was alone. He didn't want to stay all by himself." Richard frowned heavily._

_"His dad left him on his own? Why didn't he just send someone over to watch him?" He frowned further as he realized the full extent of her words. "Now wait just a second; I left at midnight and he wasn't there. Are you telling me he _walked_ all the way over to our house alone after midnight?" Beck sighed, staring at the dashboard- her father was going to flip his shit, but she couldn't lie to him._

_"Three; he didn't want me to tell you because he didn't want his dad to get in trouble."_

_"Excuse me? Has this ever happened before?"_

_"He doesn't want me to-"_

_"Has this ever happened before? No dodging, tell me the truth." _

_"No, not very often. Please don't do anything stupid, dad, you have that look on your face mom warned about before you tried to outrun that guard dog at the repair shop. His dad's not even home right now, he's at work." Beck sounded desperate, trying to avoid trouble. Finally, her father backed down and started the car, but he was still on the verge of breathing fire. Before he could pull out, Beck leaned over and put her head on his shoulder, wishing that everyone's father could be like hers._

_"I love you, Dad."_

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><p><em>Waiting for his father to get home was quite possibly worse than if he had been there when Sherlock arrived. He stayed silently in his room, heart racing, while he listened for any sign of the older man's approach. Two and a half hours later, he heard his father come home. He sat perfectly still, not sure what to do.<em>

_"Are you back yet? Or are you still running off?" His father's voice came echoing up the stairs, a loud yell that left no question as to who he was looking for. Sherlock got slowly off the bed; better to go then to have his father come looking. His heart was racing as he pulled his door open._

_"I'm here." He stood at the top of the stairway, doing his best not to show any fear, as his father moved to stand at the bottom._

_"Come down here. Now." He wasn't drunk, he wasn't yelling, he didn't even look angry. His words were contained and absolutely, frighteningly calm, but that somehow made it far worse. Sherlock descended the stairs slowly, looking past his father at the closed door. Robert grabbed his arm in a vice grip, causing the twelve year old to wince._

_"Where were you?" He didn't want to say- if his father knew he'd been at Beck's house then she'd be in trouble too. But his father squeezed harder, pulling Sherlock toward him. "Where did you go?" he repeated slowly, anger finally starting to seep through his tone. _

_"I went to a friend's house- I didn't think you'd care. Ah!" He gasped suddenly as Robert pulled him down the empty hallway. Sherlock didn't know where they were going, but he didn't like to think about it. _

_"I know exactly whose house you were at; your brother's told me all about your friend the American." Fear rippled through Sherlock's system. He hoped Beck wasn't in danger, but considering her father and his level of protectiveness, she probably wasn't. The more pertinent question was, what would happen to him now? _

_"She doesn't know anything, I swear." He struggled to keep pace with his taller father as Robert continued to pull him down the hallway. _

_"I don't care about her," his father replied. "Since you hate sleeping in your room so much, let's see how you like spending the night here, shall we?" Sherlock finally realized where they were heading: the basement. _

_He pulled against his father, trying to get loose, but it was no use; Robert was stronger, taller, and more determined. Keeping his son in an iron grip, he pulled the basement door open and forced Sherlock down the steps, slamming it shut before the boy could get out. It was pitch-black and there was no electricity down there; Sherlock was trapped in the darkness until his father chose to let him out. He wasn't released until school the next morning. _

* * *

><p>John awoke suddenly around two thirty in the morning, blinking the residual drowse out of his eyes, not sure what had gotten him up. Having finally convinced Sherlock to sleep, he had decided to catch a few hours of his own, knowing that he would be no use in the morning if he didn't. He trained in on his senses, guessing that whatever had woken him related to that; there was nothing quite like spending a couple of years in the desert to get you awake at the slightest thing.<p>

He heard a noise downstairs (that must have been what had woken him up a few seconds ago), but not the sound of somebody breaking in. Then he realized- it was coming from Sherlock. He was having a nightmare. John wasn't entirely sure what to do- he'd barely ever seen the taller man sleep, let alone have a nightmare. The detective was yelling in his sleep, getting progressively louder.

The sound tore at John's chest; he hated seeing his friend in such a bad way, even though he had been expecting some kind of trouble. It was inevitable, but still, he would so much rather that it never happened. He sighed and got out of bed, not sure what to do, going downstairs to where Sherlock was sleeping on the couch. He was still solidly out cold, and part of John didn't want to wake him; it had been almost five days since Sherlock had gotten some proper sleep, and even he had a limit he couldn't go past.

But still, there was no way John was leaving him in this state without doing anything. The detective was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. His other hand was trailing over the edge of the couch; John sat on the edge of the coffee table and took it in his own. He was startled when the detective squeezed back in his sleep, wincing and letting out another holler.

"It's alright, Sherlock, you're safe, just calm down." He spoke quietly, knowing the detective couldn't hear him in his sleep, but talking all the same. "Whatever's in your head right now, it's not real; not anymore." He nearly had a small heart attack when Sherlock's hand moved up and closed around his wrist. The taller man's blue eyes came open, but looking at him John realized that he was still so close to sleep that he had no idea where he was. As far as he was concerned, he was still in the nightmare.

"Get me away from him," he hissed, his grip on John's wrist almost painfully tight as he pulled the shorter man forward towards him. It took the doctor only a fraction of a second to realize that Sherlock was having a nightmare about his father. He put his free hand on Sherlock's shoulder, telling the other man,

"He's gone, Sherlock, he's not here now."

"He'll come back."

"I promise I'll keep him away from you, and so will Beck. He can't get to you now; just go to back to sleep." The detective looked at him for a second before sinking back into a full sleep, his vice grip on John's wrist finally loosening. John stayed there until his nightmare had receded, sitting on the edge of the coffee table and planning out all the things he wanted to do to Robert should they ever have the misfortune to meet again. Finally, Sherlock's yelling faded and he was back to just normal, dream-free sleeping. John released the detective's hand, rubbed his face in exhaustion, and climbed the stairs back to his own room. God, he felt like shooting something.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Sorry this is so delayed, but I had a shit-ton of work to do this week (if you'll pardon the expression) and I've only just gotten any time to write. Also, I've been listening to Cabin Pressure. The word 'brilliant' is now forever associated with Arthur Shappey in my mind... So anyways, I hope the length makes up for the lateness, and as always, you know how I love reviews. :) I like to hear what you think. Unfortunately, after this chapter, things get even worse in flashback-land, so, just warning you... O.o **

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><p>As John had predicted, when Sherlock awoke the next morning, he had no recollection whatsoever of his nightmare or his short interaction with John. Despite his protestations to the contrary, he slept solidly (apart from the obvious disturbance) until almost noon. His phone had buzzed with a text at about nine in the morning, and John had answered it. It was Mycroft, saying that he was coming over today and no, Sherlock could not avoid it. John had texted the elder Holmes back.<p>

_He's asleep right now. Come over in the afternoon. –JW_

Mycroft hadn't answered back, but he also hadn't shown up until the afternoon, as John had requested, so the doctor figured he'd paid attention. Sherlock finally stirred at eleven fifty, rolling himself off the couch and looking around, seeming confused.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly twelve," John replied, setting a coffee down in front of him. "You slept the whole night through. I told you that you would." He gave the detective a slight smile to show that he was just kidding. Sherlock gave a half-hearted smile back.

"I think I might have had a dream about you," he responded, sounding perplexed. "At least, you were in it. I don't really remember." John debated whether or not to tell him about the dream, but finally decided that the detective would probably remember it at some point anyway; he might as well.

"You had a nightmare last night; it woke me up so I came down to see what was going on. That might have been what you're thinking of." Sherlock frowned, looking irritated with himself.

"I never have nightmares," he responded.

"Well trust me, after yesterday, no one's going think anything unusual of it." John could tell that Sherlock wasn't convinced, and it occurred to him that his father's behavior was probably why the taller man was under such tight emotional wraps- feeling things had probably gotten him into trouble in the past. He shook his head infinitesimally to himself and changed the subject. "Mycroft texted; he's coming over this afternoon." Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Hm, afternoon isn't usually his style. He's more of a morning person."

"I could believe it," John muttered, before responding, "He wanted to come over this morning but you were still asleep and I told him not to wake you. Of course, what he defines as 'afternoon' is probably one minute after twelve."

"Has Lestrade called?" Sherlock asked as John went into the kitchen to pour himself more coffee.

"No," John called back. "They're still waiting for Russell to try anything." He came back with his new cup, opening his laptop. "I don't think it's going to work," he continued. "Russell's probably keyed onto the fact that we're watching him by now. He'll be guarding himself." Sherlock nodded.

"I think you're probably right; if he knows the Yard is watching him he'll be doubly careful." He leaned back on the couch, gazing off into the distance. "What we need to do is find an excuse for somebody to actually _enter _his house and look for anything suspicious."

"Yeah, we could do that, but Russell's already seen the both of us, and Lestrade. It would have to be someone that he's never even met before." Sherlock shook his head.

"We'll go down to the Yard this afternoon and talk to Lestrade again. We need to take Russell in for questioning regardless." John frowned.

"Yeah, but even if we do that we won't have the evidence for a warrant to search his house." He stopped at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh, God, I know what you're thinking; no, we are not breaking into his house, Sherlock, his family'll still be there even if he's at the Yard."

"I was not thinking of breaking into his house!" Sherlock responded with mock indignation. "I was simply suggesting that, while Russell is out of the house, somebody could go in and have a look around. _With _his wife's permission, of course," he added, cutting John off at the 'no' pass.

"Define 'have a look around'," John replied. "Because you've gotten more ASBOs than every graffiti artist in the city and I don't feel like adding a new one onto your collection."

"Oh, yes, what are the numbers up to now?" John sighed, trying to remember. They had finally given up trying to avoid them and had started to keep a running tally of their respective numbers.

"I think you're at six and I'm at four. And no, I'm not inclined to move up to five and you're not getting up to seven anytime soon. Let's wait until we talk to Lestrade and then we'll see what we need to do." John snapped his laptop shut, got up again, and wandered toward the stairs. "We can head over after Mycroft's gone." He hesitated, not sure how to continue. "I'll… give you two a little personal space; I need a shower before we head over to the Yard anyway."

Sherlock nodded slowly. As much as he trusted John, some conversations were meant for no more ears than necessary and the detective was glad that John had the presence of mind to realize that himself. "Hopefully it won't take too long; Mycroft has other things to be dealing with." John couldn't help but notice that the taller man sounded slightly bitter; of course, the last time Sherlock had tried that, it had been something of a disaster.

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><p><em>Mycroft was twenty the first and only time Sherlock ever tried to confide in him. He was home on a break from university and he'd gone back to stay with his father and brother at his house. Sherlock was more glad than he would ever admit that his elder brother was home; not only because he wanted to see him, but because, so long as Mycroft was there, his father had no choice but to back down from him. For a while, at least- he knew it wouldn't last forever, but quite frankly he didn't care.<em>

_"How has school been, Mycroft?" Sherlock barely stopped as he bolted past, followed closely by Beck, and summarily followed by Mycroft, who realized that there was a very good reason they'd been fleeing the shed. _

_"University's been going very well, Sherlock, and what on earth is that stench coming from the shed?"_

_"We're not quite sure," Beck responded. "See, we didn't actually plan for that to happen, it just kind of… did. Shouldn't take it long to disperse, and then we get to find out what the hell went wrong." She gave the older Holmes a grin._

_"If you two are making trouble again…"_

_"We were not making any trouble at all and I don't even know what you're on about," Beck deadpanned. _

_"Um, you probably shouldn't go in there, Mycroft," Sherlock said, stopping him at the pass before he could enter the reeking shed. Mycroft, through long experience, decided that it was best to take the two teenagers at their word. _

_"Where's father?"_

_"Not back from work yet," his brother responded. "He's back at four. We need to hose out the shed before he gets here, too." Beck nodded and the two spent the next couple of minutes thoroughly rinsing the… _bits_ off of the metal wall while Mycroft unpacked his things in the house. Finally, the reek had departed and the shed was clean, and now Beck had to go home for dinner. _

_"How long's your brother here?" she asked._

_"A little over a week; you can relax for a bit, with him here I'll be okay." She nodded slowly._

_"If you say so; call if anything goes wrong." She headed back to her house, just barely beating the rain home. Sherlock stared after her for a minute, still slightly wishing that she could come back. He liked her, a lot- more than he liked anyone else he went to school with. Of course, that wasn't too terribly difficult to do, considering how the other kids acted around him. He shook his head, stamping down the confusion, and went back inside. _

_"So that's the Texan that you've been telling me about, then?" Mycroft asked when his brother came back in. "She seems… very much like you." Sherlock nodded. _

_"She's nice. I like her." The rain picked up outside and thunder rolled overhead. Sherlock grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and continued the awkward silence with his brother when an especially loud burst of thunder began overhead. He didn't startle easily (not by a longshot) but the burst was so loud and unexpected that he jerked backward, spilling the water over his shirtfront. He scowled to himself, trying to swipe some of the excess water off of his chest._

_"Glad I didn't drop the glass," he muttered. Then he made a mistake- he pulled his shirt off. It was a perfectly natural reaction, and he didn't even notice it because it wasn't as if he'd never been shirtless inside his own house before. But then he remembered that there were still several conspicuous bruises on his torso that he'd received when he was late home from school a few days ago. The moment after he remembered that, he realized that Mycroft had seen them; there was no way he would have missed them. His observational skills surpassed even Sherlock's, but you'd have to be blind not to see the dark blue marks on his pale skin. _

_"What happened to you?" Mycroft's voice was even, but it was obvious from his tone that he knew those bruises were no accident. _

_"Nothing," Sherlock lied thinly. "I'm going to get a new shirt." He attempted to push past his brother, but the taller, older Mycroft easily blocked his way out. _

_"Who did that? I'm not an idiot, Sherlock; I can tell that someone hit you." Sherlock glared past his brother, still not answering. "If you don't tell me, I'll ask father. He'll know."_

_"No!" Sherlock yelled, forcing his way past his brother in a sudden spurt of energy. "Just leave me alone, Mycroft!" He ran up the stairs to his room, heart racing. He didn't even want to think about how much trouble he would get in if Mycroft asked his father where those marks had come from. He sat on his bed, trying to think up a solution to his problem, when Mycroft (skipping the whole 'knocking' part) walked into his room._

_Sherlock resolutely ignored him, pulling on a new shirt from his wardrobe, while his brother shut the door and leaned against the wall. "I didn't mean to upset you, Sherlock. I'm your brother, and I worry about you; especially when you're getting hurt and won't tell me what's going on." Sherlock stared off into the distance, internal debate raging. He could tell his brother; he could tell him everything, and he could be out of that house before his father even got home from work. _

_"I-" He started to speak, but cut himself off. His father's threats rang in his ears when he thought about sharing his secret, remembering all the times Robert had threatened him. He knew that the man was smart, dangerously so, and he was afraid that even if his brother took him somewhere else, his father would track him down. So he said nothing. "I can take care of it." _

_Mycroft realized that he wasn't going to get anything out of his stubborn little brother, so he sighed to himself and left the thirteen year old on his own, working on papers while he waited for his father to get home. That evening, after Sherlock went to work on his school papers, Mycroft asked their father if he knew where the bruises had come from. The older man's eyes narrowed, but he responded that he had no idea but would do his best to find out. _

_Sherlock barely controlled his fright when he figured out that Mycroft had, indeed, asked his father what happened. He knew how it would go down- his father would think that he'd told his secret, and then he would be beaten again. His one consolation was that it wouldn't happen until Mycroft left. But then, the next day, his brother got a call from his job. _

_"There's been an emergency, Sherlock. I'm going to have to leave early, I'm sorry." Sherlock thought his heart might just stop on the spot. _

_"You said you'd stay the whole week; you promised you would!"_

_"I know I did, but I really have to go back to work. I'm an adult now, Sherlock, I have things that I have to do. I'll be back the next time I can manage it, I promise. For real, this time." He hugged his little brother and hurried off, not knowing just how much trouble he had caused._

_As Sherlock predicted, his father was convinced that he'd told his brother the truth, and wouldn't be persuaded otherwise. After his father was done hitting him, he spent the next full day and a half in the pitch darkness of the cellar. After he was let out, he realized that at some point, he'd cut his arm and it was still bleeding. He'd gone to find Beck the next day when his father was working, but she was with her mother in town. Only Richard was home, using his day off at the flight line to swear ferociously at his unresponsive car._

_"I think it needs stitches," Sherlock told him. "My father's at work until four and I need a ride." _

_"Well, I'll sure give you one as soon as this thing starts working again." After ten more minutes of cursing, Richard managed to get his vehicle to work. Once they were in the car and on their way, he turned to the boy. "So how often does your dad leave you at home by yourself?"_

Not often enough_, Sherlock thought, but he answered, "Not very often. This was my fault, though."_

_"I didn't ask whose fault it was." The way he said it was enough for Sherlock to realize that he suspected something. "Look, I'm not gonna to pry- Texans don't pry, we wait 'till we know what's going on and then kick the appropriate person's ass- but if you're ever left alone again, come to our house. I don't care when, but I'm not letting you be on your own any longer." He took Sherlock to the hospital and got his stitches. While they were being put in, Richard pulled the doctor aside. "I want a word with you, if it ain't too much trouble." The doctor nodded, stepping to the side as well._

_"What's the problem, sir?"_

_"Well that's just it, I don't know. That boy, the one I brought in for the stitches, can you tell how he got that cut on his arm?" The doctor flipped open his file, looking at the picture the A&E had taken. He stared at it for a couple of minutes before shaking his head._

_"No, sorry; why? Do you think it was deliberate?" _

_"I don't know; that's what I'm trying to figure out." The doctor gave him a sharp look._

_"Do you think somebody's been abusing him?" Richard gritted his jaw and shrugged._

_"I don't want to overreact, but I'm starting to worry about that; his dad has a rather unfortunate habit of leaving him on his own, but there's a long step between that and this." _

_Richard thanked the doctor for his time, waited for Sherlock's stitches to finish, and turned the mess over in his mind. He remembered all the times Sherlock had turned up at their house unexpectedly, often with a very odd excuse; all the seemingly-random injuries and bruises that the boy had explained away as accidents. He wondered how blind he must have been not to notice anything before now, mentally kicking himself, and then he made a decision. He had previously stated that Texans didn't pry, and it was true, but they sure as hell weren't above meddling. He was going to figure out what was going on, and then he was going to call the police. _


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: So, I finished this at one in the morning because my flat neighbors decided to have a rip-roarin' party and I think clear glass is thicker than the walls here. O.o I hope you guys got better sleep than I did; however, I did prove that there are times severe insomnia can work _with_ you and not against you. :P Have I mentioned lately that you guys are awesome? I only have sixteen chapter up and I already have 58 reviews. :D Of course, that said, I would always love some more, but seriously thanks. It's reassuring to know that I'm not just rambling inanely to myself. And speaking of rambling inanely, without further ado, chapter 17!... **

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><p><em>The week after the hospital visit was Sherlock's fourteenth birthday; he celebrated it at Beck's house with her and her parents, having no other friends to be with. For all it consisted of two children and two adults, it was a fairly enjoyable party. Beck's mother made a cake and they listened to the radio and Richard tried his hand (or rather his feet) at dancing and remembered why he worked on planes instead. <em>

_"Dad, that's awful," Beck laughed. _

_"It's the spirit that counts," he responded in mock indignation. "But you're right, Fred Astaire I ain't." Sherlock watched Beck and her father, wondering for the thousandth time why his father couldn't be like that; their children were virtually identical, but Richard and Robert couldn't be more different if they tried. As time went on he felt a strange sense of detachment from the party, his thoughts isolating him from the others. _

_After the party was over, Beck and her mother began to clean up the kitchen while Richard sat on the back porch, cleaning the mud off of his boots for work that night. Sherlock sat on their couch, staring off into space; he barely even noticed when Richard came back in and sat down in the chair next to him. _

_"So, did you have fun?" he asked. Sherlock nodded._

_"Thank you for the cake, too. It tasted very nice." Richard laughed._

_"Oh, thank my wife for the cake, not me. If I'd tried to bake anything this house'd be on fire right now." He hesitated for a second, not sure how to continue with his intended line of questioning. Finally he just bit his lip and plunged in. "Sherlock, you know you can trust me, right?" The boy nodded cautiously. "I need to ask you something kinda personal. You just tell me the truth, okay, and I promise I won't be upset with you; that cut on your arm that I took you to the doctor's for last week, that wasn't an accident, was it?"_

_"I don't know how I got it," Sherlock replied rigidly. It was the truth; he'd spent so long in the dark he couldn't have told what had started his arm bleeding. Richard sighed to himself, sensing Sherlock's stiffness. _

_"Okay, what about how you got that?" Richard gestured to a dark mark over Sherlock's clavicle, visible through the collar of his shirt, a relic of his father's belief that he'd told on him to Mycroft. "I know a deliberate mark when I see one, and I know that something's been going on. Someone's been hitting you; like I said, I promise, no matter what you tell me, I'm not gonna get angry at you. I just want to know what's going on." _

_Sherlock's mind was racing, trying to think of a way out of his dilemma. He couldn't say anything; his father (as he had been thoroughly reminded for the last seven years) had more clout than his an anti-social, fourteen year old freak of a son. No one would believe Sherlock even if he did tell the truth._

_"Nothing's wrong," he answered Richard mechanically, only adding to the man's growing conviction that something was indeed seriously wrong. "I'm just accident-prone, that's all." He got up abruptly and moved off into the hallway, leaving Richard to stare after him. Sherlock's behavior had sealed the matter for him. He leaned back in the chair, barely saying another word the whole night. _

_Afterwards, especially after his re-assignment and all that had gone so badly wrong before then, Richard would always wonder how things would have worked out if he had spoken to any other police officer than the one he'd gotten. Maybe they would have listened to him, taken him seriously, if anyone else had handled the matter. But as it was, he spoke to a new officer, a pompous young man eager to prove his authority and unwilling to take advice from a man in a stained flight suit._

_"Something's wrong with him; I just know it. Someone's been abusing him, and he won't say who." The officer had looked at him skeptically. _

_"Do you have any proof? Has the boy backed up your accusations at all?" Richard frowned at the man._

_"No, but I _know_ something's going on- he turns up with bruises all the time and he'll never say where he got 'em. He comes to our house at all times of the day cause his dad leaves him on his own for hours at a stretch."_

_"If his father thinks he can take care of himself, then that's his prerogative," the officer responded. "You said this boy is fourteen now, he might very well be capable of looking after himself. My point is, you don't have any proof that what you're accusing his father of is true; without that, the police force can't do anything." Richard stared at the young officer. He couldn't quite believe his ears._

_"How am I supposed to get _proof_ if he's too frightened to say anything? Last I checked, suspicion was damn good enough when a child's safety is on the line!" Richard knew that getting angry wouldn't help, and as a matter of fact, it only convinced the young officer that this Texas guy was a little insane. _

_"Sir, I need you to calm down," he answered. Richard glared at him but settled, trying to reclaim some lost ground. _

_"Isn't it at least worth a visit, even if you don't do anything official?" he asked, hoping to get something out of his as-yet wasted trip. The young officer shifted uncomfortably._

_"The man you're accusing has a lot of influence in the town; even if we had the evidence for a visit, it probably wouldn't be allowed." Richard arched an eyebrow in disbelief._

_"Say that again? You're honestly telling me that you'll let him get away with child abuse cause he's got clout? I don't give two shits what kinda influence he's got, if he's beating on his child he needs to be stopped!" That was about when Richard started yelling at the poor guy so loudly he was thrown out of the police station. _

_He tried to go back to them after that, but the word had gotten around from the young officer he'd given a verbal kicking to; no one believed him, because he had no proof and they all thought that he was just a little bit crazy. He had to go to the flight line that night, tasked with removing the landing gear from a T-39 Learjet. He pounded on the undercarriage so hard he had it out in three swings. _

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><p>Lestrade was still wondering what Beck had been talking about before she dashed out the door of Scotland Yard after her confrontation. What had she said? 'Look in your files'. He had a sudden idea; he logged into his computer and looked through the list of releases that week. Everyone let out of prison was registered so they could alert anyone they needed to. A surprisingly large number of people had been let out of prison on Thursday evening. He scanned through the list, looking for anyone who matched the description of the man Beck had threatened. Finally, he found the only match it could possibly have been.<p>

"Oh, God," he breathed. Robert Holmes; Lestrade wondered if he was related to Sherlock. He remembered that she'd said Sherlock had sent him to prison at sixteen. Given that and the identical surname, it was highly likely that they were related. He opened the file; as he had suspected, they were. Robert was Sherlock's father. He only scanned through, looking at as few of the details as possible.

He felt his anger growing even as he tried to control himself. He had always wondered why the detective was the way he was, and now as he looked through Robert's arrest report, he realized that he'd probably found the reason. He'd started hitting him at seven, and it only got worse from there. He shut down the report and leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure what to do; his first instinct was to call Sherlock, but he realized between the case and all the stress he would be under right now, that probably wouldn't work out too well.

Finally, he flipped his phone open and called Beck. "Yeah, I've figured out what you were talking about the other night." She sighed on the other end of the line.

"I suppose you want to talk to me. I'll be there in an hour or so; probably 'so'. Do us a favor and keep this to yourself, will you? No need to spread what isn't ours." Beck closed down the call and hurried to catch a ride back into town with one of the guys. It took less time than she'd anticipated, since the persistent rain from the last week finally seemed to be going away; still, though, this was England. It was world-famous for being wet, so it wouldn't be surprising if the rain picked back up. The break had given the dirt road some time to re-solidify and it wasn't nearly as bumpy as it had been.

Beck couldn't help but wonder if every policeman in Scotland Yard knew her personally by now. Between making her statement, clearing up her alibi, and her now rather notorious encounter with Robert she'd almost spent more time at the Met than she had at the dig site she was supposed to be excavating. She made her way to Lestrade's office, barely even looking around and half expecting to see her footprints marked into the floor.

She knocked on the Inspector's open door and showed herself in. "Good afternoon again; you found the report." It was a statement, not a question. He nodded.

"Well, this'll get you out of any trouble with the department for threatening him." It wasn't so much a half-hearted attempt at a joke as maybe a quarter or an eighth. Lestrade sighed, not sure where to go from here. "I didn't do too much looking at that report, but I saw your name a few times."

"Well, I gave 'em most of the stuff they needed after his dad got canned," she said, answering the unspoken question. "Sherlock wouldn't talk to anybody about what happened; hell, he still won't. The only reason he told John anything was 'cause he didn't have a choice. I mean, you know full well how he is." The Detective Inspector nodded- he was more than familiar with the tall man's recalcitrant behavior.

"Why did he wait so long? Why didn't he just go to the police?" It wasn't so much confusion that caused him to ask that question as disbelief that Sherlock of all people would let someone do that to him for so many years. Beck shrugged.

"His father threatened him- all the time. Plus, he didn't think anyone would believe him. So he just… never did. Not 'till I went myself. I wanted to go sooner; but I was the only person he trusted and he'd asked me not to tell anyone." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "I was seven, you know? I thought I was doing the right thing by giving him _someone_ who wouldn't turn on him. That couldn't have backfired any harder, could it have, eh?"

"It wasn't your fault," he told her simply. "You thought you were helping him."

"I know, and I keep trying to tell myself that, but somehow the message just doesn't stick?" Even in the short time that he'd known Beck, Lestrade got the sense that she had never let these thoughts out to anyone before. So he stayed silent and let her get twelve years of pent-up anger out of her system. "You know my dad _did_ try to go to the cops- as soon as he even had a hint of what was going on. They have it contained with part of that report."

"When was that?"

"Three years before he was finally arrested. Not that it did much good; he tried over and over again and they wouldn't do anything about it! They wouldn't even visit his damn house, they just kept saying that his dad had 'too much influence' and they wouldn't be permitted to say anything. Like child abuse took a backseat to politics all of a sudden!" She stood up and paced the room, venting some of her agitation, while Lestrade tried to wrap his mind around that idea.

"That's ridiculous, we have a legal obligation to take those warnings seriously. How could they ignore that?" It was a rhetorical question. Beck shook her head and continued to pace.

"Didn't you ever wonder why he ain't too fond of the cops? After the way they stuck their collective foot in it when my dad tried to talk to 'em it's not a real shock. He likes you, though, I can tell." She gave him a small smile. "He's just… got a strange way of showing it. 'Cause you listened to him. Not too many people have ever done that."

"So if they didn't believe your father when Sherlock was thirteen, how come they believed you when he was sixteen?" Beck sat back down in her chair and gave a laugh so humorless it almost hurt.

"Cause things got worse."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: So Happy Easter, everyone, and Happy Good Friday, too. :D Needless to say, feedback is appreciated and reviewers are awesome. Especially because this chapter made me sad to write. T_T This is my face right now. Sorry if I sound a little crazier than usual, but it's two a.m. and Dinogeek needs her some sleep. O.o **

**MAJOR WARNING for everything past the first section of the flashback because holy shit... You know how I said things got worse? Things get worse there. Just warning you. **

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><p>"How?" Lestrade asked, sounding incredulous. "How could it possibly have gotten <em>worse<em>?"

"You'd be surprised," Beck remarked bitterly. "See, at first, after the cops shot dad down on the whole thing, he decided not to tell anyone else that he'd tried to get 'em involved; since it was obvious they weren't gonna do anything he knew that word getting out about it would only make things more dangerous for Sherlock. His dad would think he'd told on him, and that was what he'd always worried about most, from the time he was little."

"Is this where I interject and say that something went wrong, didn't it?" It was a rhetorical question; Lestrade could tell already that Richard's plan hadn't worked out. Beck nodded.

"Yup, something went wrong. His dad figured out what had happened; I don't even know how, none of us could ever figure out, not even to this day. But, somehow, he found out that my dad had gone to the police. I remember it real clear- it was right after my fourteenth birthday."

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><p><em>Beck's fourteenth birthday had been a little over two months after Sherlock's, after Richard's debacle of a visit with the cops. The events in their collective lives had put a real damper on their enthusiasm, but Richard decided that screw this, he wanted those kids to have a good time, damn it. He took them down to the coast, a bit of a drive, but a pretty one and very calm. He showed them the limestone cliffs and told them all about what the land had been like long ago, before people had even existed. <em>

_"Can we go off looking around?" Beck asked him. He shrugged._

_"Y'all go right ahead, just stay away from the edge and don't throw what you can't catch." They darted off to explore while Richard stretched himself out on a bench and tried to take a nap after the twenty hour training mission he was fresh off of. _

_"Hey, dude!" Sherlock turned as Beck ran up behind him, stopping just shy of colliding with him. "Isn't this fun? It's so weird thinking that all this we're standing on was made three hundred million years ago, ain't it?" He nodded, examining a particularly spectacular section of the cliff that was sticking out of the ground, not hovering over the ocean. _

_"It's very pretty here," he commented. "More your area than mine, though." He smiled at her, glad that she was having fun, and not having too bad a time himself. She smiled brightly back._

_"You having fun?" she asked._

_"Yes, I've always loved heights. Happy birthday, by the way." He reached down and picked a piece of the limestone up off of the ground. He turned it over, examining it, and then reached out and handed it to her. "Here; I couldn't get you a proper birthday gift, I'm afraid, but at least this is something." She took it from him with a smile._

_"It's a wonderful gift," she said. The two stayed silent for a moment, staring out into the English Channel, before Beck turned back to Sherlock. "You want food now as much as I do? Cause I'm getting damn hungry." Sherlock wasn't particularly hungry himself, but he followed her back nonetheless. Beck shook her dad out of his nap and asked him, "Want food?" He nodded, stretching and getting the food out of the trunk of his car. After they were done eating, he had them stand by a rock outcropping while he took a photo of them, the photo that Sherlock would later show to John. They set back off for home at about four, to give them some time for the drive to get home before dark. In all of Sherlock's fourteen years, that was probably the best day he'd ever had. He should have known it wasn't going to last.  
><em>

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><p><em>Sherlock's father was gone again by the time he'd gotten home from Beck's house, but of course he wasn't about to complain about that. The more often Robert was away, the better so far as Sherlock was concerned. He smiled to himself, glad that Beck had liked his somewhat MacGyvered present, and glad that the day itself had been fun. He lay on his bed doing a whole lot of nothing, forcing himself not to worry about what might happen when his father got home. <em>

_It worked until the front door slammed open on its hinges with a crash; Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed, heart racing, wondering what on earth he'd done now. It wasn't anything to do with the trip, his father had known that he'd be gone today. How had he managed to do something wrong again when he hadn't even been there? _

_"Get down here now!" his father roared; he sounded angrier than Sherlock had ever heard him, even more than when he and Sherlock's mother were in the middle of their divorce. Forcing himself to get up, Sherlock made his way to the door and down the stairs to where his father stood in the hallway. He knew better than to speak, waiting for Robert to tell him what had happened. Sure enough, it didn't take long for the man to start._

_"Would you like to know what I heard today from a friend of mine?" Abruptly, he seized Sherlock by the wrist, causing the boy to wince in pain. "I heard something very interesting; apparently your little friend's father decided to go and talk to the police. I think you know what about," he growled, squeezing his son's wrist even harder. Sherlock's heart began to race; so Richard had gone to the police. Sherlock had wondered if he did or not, worried that he hadn't done enough to convince him that nothing was wrong. _

_"I didn't tell him," he answered, doing his level best to keep his voice even. _

_"Like hell you didn't," his father answered. He pushed Sherlock up against the staircase, the force of the shove knocking his head painfully into the wall, and leaned over him. Despite his recent growth spurt, Robert still had a good few inches on his son, and now Sherlock looked up at him through a hazy kaleidoscope, struggling to focus on the man. _

_"I swear I didn't say anything, he must have figured it out on his own," he struggled out, trying to avoid more trouble, but it wasn't to be. _

_"I've told you what will happen if you try and say anything," he told Sherlock. "You wonder why the police didn't believe what he was saying? No one believes you; you're nothing but an anti-social waste of space who couldn't be anything but a freak if it saved your life." Sherlock winced inwardly at his words, but truth be told, he was starting to run out of ways to tell himself that what his father was saying was untrue. His father pulled him away from the staircase bodily, dragging his son in the now-familiar direction of the basement, but to Sherlock's surprise (and intense trepidation) they moved on past that and out toward the back door. _

_Wordlessly, his father pulled him outside, still barefooted and in his light clothes from that day, into the rainy backyard. "Where are we going?" Sherlock finally dared to ask, but Robert didn't answer him; instead, he pulled the boy out to the shed, shoving him inside and locking the door from the outside so that Sherlock was stuck in the shed in the midst of the wet, cold night of early March. _

_He escaped early in the morning, before his father had decided to let him out, but he didn't go back to the house; he never wanted to be there again. He didn't go to Beck's house either, like he normally would have; he didn't want to go anywhere, not anymore. There was a forest growing along the back fence of his yard, wild and more or less devoid of people. He wandered off in that direction, still barefoot and in what were now yesterday's clothes, not heading anywhere in particular. _

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><p><em>Beck got to school early that morning because her dad had an emergency call from the hangar and couldn't wait until seven. She scowled but decided to go exploring, wondering what she could find when there were no other children to bother her. Well, except for Sherlock; Beck waited every day for him to get to school, just to reassure herself that he was safe and (comparatively) unharmed. She looked around till her heart's content and then sat back while the other students filtered in. <em>

_When it was almost seven and there was no sign of Sherlock, she began to worry. He wasn't there- something was wrong, she just knew it. She tried to reassure herself; he might just be sick, or late, or any one of a thousand possible explanations for missing class. But that wasn't it. She knew that wasn't it. Something was wrong. _

_She ducked out when the teacher had his back turned and another group of students were just coming in the door, slipping out of the school and into the rainy March morning and making her way to his house. A quick (careful) check confirmed that he wasn't anywhere in the house, so she hopped the back fence, looking for any evidence of his presence. She finally found a trail, back by the shed; someone in bare feet, who had headed towards the woods at the back of the yard. _

_The terrible feeling now thoroughly entrenched in the pit of her stomach, she hopped the forest fence as well, still looking for the trail. Finally, though, she lost it for good, and she resorted to simply looking for her best friend's curly hair and yelling his name, hoping against hope that he would respond. _

_"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Nothing; wherever he was he either couldn't hear her or (her heart stopped at the thought) couldn't respond. Praying fervently that it was the former, she kept on, until finally she found him by the river which ran through the woods. He was staring down into the water, barefoot and soaking wet. The river, not exactly gentle at the best of times, was swollen by the rain they'd gotten yesterday and that morning, rushing by with far more force than usual. _

_She walked up behind him, not even trying to hide her presence. "Hey," she told him quietly. He didn't even turn to face her, just glanced in her direction before going back to the water. "What happened last night? I saw your footprints by the shed." Sherlock shrugged, still not tearing his gaze away._

_"He locked me in there for the night," he muttered. He finally looked away from the water and at his friend. Looking into his face, Beck felt like someone had stabbed her in the chest. He looked desperate, and miserable, worse than she had ever seen him. "Why am I alive?" Oh, God… she realized what he was planning to do. He was going to jump into the river._

_"Because you need to be," she answered. "I know it's hard, but don't give up; please, don't give up.""It's not as if I'd be much of a loss!" he retorted angrily, his emotions finally coming to the surface. "I'm useless, and everyone knows it. I don't count for anything. I don't _need_ to be alive." _

_"Yes you do," she answered quietly. "You do need to be alive, and you do count for something; and you are not useless. You're my best friend, hell you're my only friend, and you're practically my dad's child. I care about you, and my dad cares about you, and if you throw yourself in that river than I'm jumping in right afterwards and pulling you back out." He still wasn't convinced, his father's statements ringing in his ears. He'd run out; he'd run out of energy and he'd run out of ways to tell himself that his father was wrong and he'd run out of motivation to keep going. _

_"I'm giving up." He turned back towards the river, only to be stopped at least temporarily when Beck put her hand in his. _

_"No, you're not," she responded sternly. "You're Sherlock freaking Holmes, you never give up; it ain't allowed. Hell, I've seen you climb a barbed wire fence just to prove to somebody that you could. Don't let him win; keep going, please. If only to prove to everyone that you can." Something in her words turned him around, and convinced him that maybe he should listen to what she was saying. His shoulders sagged and he dropped to the forest floor, crossing his arms over his knees and leaning his head down on them._

_Beck sat next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders while he shivered in the damp morning cold. She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, using all of her self-restraint to keep from both crying and going back to that house and killing his father in a hundred different ways. After a while, she stood them both back up and they began to find their way out of the woods. Unsurprisingly, neither of them had exactly stopped to take note of their route, and that proved easier said than done. Finally, though, they found their way to the yard again, cutting a circuit around it and heading for the road. _

_"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked her. She decided to take it as a good sign that he was showing interest in his surroundings once more, rather than staring off into the distance. _

_"Back to my house," she answered him. "Dad's there; he can give you some clothes and food and whatnot. You're not going back to your house, not if I can help it." It wasn't going to be an easy walk; Sherlock still didn't have any shoes, and both of them were exhausted from the adrenaline rush wearing off and fading away. But determination will out, and finally, blessedly, they made it back to Beck's house. She called for help and her dad, back from his call, rushed out to meet her, picking Sherlock up and taking him back into the house, followed closely by his daughter. They got him some food and some new clothes, and Beck managed to wait until he was solidly asleep before she finally began to cry. _


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I'M ALIVE! And I am so sorry that it took me two weeks to update this, but in my defense, Finals Week has been (and still is) roundly kicking my ass... Still though, I'm_ really_ sorry it's taken this long. I'll try and get the next one up double-quick to make up for it. :) As always, reviews mean a great deal to me, and I want to know what you think and I promise I respond. I decided to give Beck a chance to do some stuff in this chapter. Because she needs a chance to show off outside of flashback land. :P Sorry for the wait, thanks for waiting, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. ^-^**

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><p>Lestrade sat back in his chair, absorbing Beck's story. He had known the detective for almost six years, and had seen him at his worst during his drug addiction, but he had never known the man to be that troubled. Not to the point of trying to commit suicide. "What happened after that?"<p>

"We kept him out of that house, is what happened," she answered. "He lived with us for the next year and a half, until we were sixteen."

"When you were restationed?" She nodded grimly; that was when their hand was forced, when they realized that Beck and her father were going to be leaving the country soon. She and Sherlock had run out of time. And somehow they'd managed to get an even bigger mess out of that than they'd had already.

"Even though he was living with us he still wouldn't say anything to the police; my dad kept trying, but he wasn't exactly in their good graces badgering them so much." She shrugged dejectedly. "Still, though, at least he wasn't in that house anymore. With us he could be safe."

"Did his brother know about any of this?"

"Uh, he knew Sherlock had moved out at some point and wouldn't come back, but his dad told him it was just 'cause they'd had a falling out; old bastard lied through his teeth, as usual. Mycroft had no reason not to believe him." She shrugged. "Truth be told, I honestly don't know. I met him all of six times before we moved away and even then I barely spoke to him. You'd be better served asking him yourself."

Beck (though the last week or two it had been seeming otherwise) actually did have some work to do, so she made her goodbyes, headed back for the dig site, and left the Detective Inspector sitting at his desk, staring off into the distance. After a few minutes, he shook his head and pushed the past to the back, and got back to work on the Thomas Howard case, looking for something to pin Seth Russell on. They could deal with Sherlock's father later.

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><p>Sherlock didn't even get up when he heard Mycroft coming up the stairs, just continued to stare forwards, resting his chin on his fingertips and waiting for his brother to start the conversation. However, it seemed that his brother was quite content to do the same, so the two sat in a stalemate for a while before Sherlock finally caved and broke the silence.<p>

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want to talk about, little brother." Sherlock shot Mycroft a glare that could freeze lava.

"You're a bit late; he came here already, Mycroft, yesterday."

"Yes, John told me about their little… encounter. He won't be coming here again." Sherlock gave his brother another glare.

"What, trying to make up for last time?" Mycroft looked at his brother levelly while the younger man paced the room. In anyone else, that would be seen as reservation, but in Sherlock Holmes it was quite the opposite.

"I didn't know what was happening last time. I do now."

"How did you not notice anything? How could you just 'not know' for nine years?" Sherlock retorted, some of his pent-up anger slipping out onto the surface. "Beck noticed, and she'd barely known me for two weeks; how could no one else spot anything, were they all blind?" Mycroft continued to watch his little brother, but there was a touch of sadness mixed in with the level gaze now. He sighed quietly and tried his best to answer.

"You outsmarted the rest of us, Sherlock. You had a secret you wanted to keep hidden and the only person you can't fool is me. And I was busy, so I didn't listen. And I am sorry that I didn't figure out what was going on- you know I am. But that doesn't mean I am going to let the same thing happen twice." Sherlock turned away from his brother, staring out the window, and Mycroft knew that he wasn't going to be getting any more conversation out of him today. Sure enough, Sherlock spoke.

"I have a case to solve, Mycroft." Mycroft sighed again and responded,

"Alright, I'll go. I'll be back when you're finished." He hesitated just slightly before adding, "Be careful, little brother." After he was gone, Sherlock remained in the same spot, brain spinning through all the possibilities of the case looking for the most likely explanation. John had come back downstairs after Mycroft had left and sat at the table working on his blog, leaving the detective to think; not that he wasn't turning a few things over in his mind himself. But he was very well aware that trying to talk to the taller man before he was done would be slightly below useless. They had been sitting in the silence for about five minutes when Sherlock's phone beeped.

"It's from Lestrade," he commented. "They're going to get Seth Russell to take him in for questioning right now. If we're going to have a look at his house now's our only chance." John scowled; he still didn't like the idea of breaking into Russell's house, but he reassured himself by remembering that as long as his wife let them in, it wasn't burglary.

"What do you think the chances are she's going to let us in the place? She knows who we are; she's probably not going to be eager to help us arrest her husband."

"True, but I know one person she most definitely hasn't seen before," Sherlock answered. He pulled out his phone with the look on his face John always associated with 'a plan that will probably lead to them getting another ASBO'. He dialed and waited a minute while it was answered. "I need a hand with something; are you still in town? Okay, meet me at Baker Street as soon as possible. See you."

"So who did you just co-opt?" John asked him.

"Beck; she's the only person we can guarantee Russell's wife hasn't seen before." Beck arrived soon after, having been no more than five minutes out of town when Sherlock called her. Honestly, one would think she didn't have a job to be doing the way she'd been running back and forth, but fortunately her boss understood that 'murder investigation' kind of had to take some precedence. After all, those fish had been dead for three hundred and fifty million years; they were in no rush.

"Hey y'all," she called out as she bounded up the stairs. "What do you need my help for? It's something stupid, isn't it?" she added, catching sight of Sherlock's expression. He smiled wryly at her.

"Define 'stupid'," he answered. "All we need is for you to help us catch a murderer." Beck gave a sarcastic smile with a matching laugh.

"Yeah, that's _totally_ not a bad idea. Can't see anything that could go wrong there. Same guy you've been chasing?" Sherlock nodded. "Well then, why don't you just arrest him? It ain't rocket science, mate."

"Lestrade's already taken him in for questioning, but that doesn't mean he'll say anything," Sherlock responded, getting down to business. "We need somebody to get into the house while we _know _he's out and see if they can find any evidence of illegal activities. That's where you come in; his wife knows who John and I are. We need someone she'll never have seen before, and that would be-"

"Me," Beck finished drily. "Yahoo. So why are you so convinced his wife'll let a random stranger into her house?"

"Because John can't lie to save him mother and Russell's wife has seen me before." Beck and John snorted in unison, but for different reasons. "The only one she won't be suspicious of is you."

"Fair point; you ain't exactly hard to forget, dude." She rolled her eyes. "Alright, I'll give it a shot. Because you're my friend and I like you and after this you _so totally owe me one._ What do you need me to do?"

"'Lost tourist' act, if possible. If that doesn't work, fake an injury."

"Got it. When are we doing this?"

"Now, actually. They've just picked Russell up for questioning and we don't have a lot of time until they release him."

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><p>As it turned out, Beck (despite having grown up in England for nine years) could pull off the 'lost tourist' act with quite the flourish. She could also improvise; really, really well. Russell's wife wasn't at home, having gone down to the police station to try and get her husband released. She had left her children at home with their teenaged neighbor, who Beck easily got to believe she was an exhausted traveler with a bad map.<p>

"I normally do pretty good finding my way 'round, but this is a real big city. Bigger than anything we got where I come from." She played up her accent to help the ruse, giving the girl a small, well-meaning grin. "If you got a map I could check to find where I am that'd be real cool." The girl gave her an understanding smile and hurried off to find an updated map, leaving Beck alone in the front hallway. Sherlock texted her.

_Good job. -SH_

She texted him back.

_That was the single most wrong thing I have ever done in my entire life ever, man. You owe me one so damn bad... _

The babysitter turned back up with the newest map she could find. To further furnish the illusion, Sherlock had provided Beck with a map of London that was from a time when the year began with 19, so she took it gratefully. "Thanks so much," she told the girl. "It's just this stupid map; it's the only one I could find and it's real old, too. I just need to copy down some stuff and than I'll be out of your hair, promise." She smiled again and the babysitter left her there while she went to see what one of the children had called her about. The younger child and one of his friends darted into the hallway, playing a game.

"Oh, hi," he told her. "What are you doing here?" She gave him a friendly smile.

"I'm just copying some stuff down for my map. What are y'all up to?" The two glanced at each other, seeming to debate silently.

"We're playing a game," his friend answered. "I've hidden something and he's got to find it."

"Yeah, is it in the vase? I'll bet it's in the vase!" the boy hollered, pushing playfully at his friend. The two made to look in the vase, but the boy's friend bumped into him, and than he bumped into the vase, knocking it cleanly off the table. Before either of them could react, Beck reached down instinctively and grabbed it an inch from the floor, putting back upright on its stand.

"Whew, that was close, wasn't it?" she laughed, but the kids didn't smile back. Instead, they glanced at each other nervously. They scooted closer together, the boy's friend sliding in front of him slightly.

"We're really really sorry," he said breathlessly. "Can you not tell the sitter about that? I don't want Dan to get in trouble." Beck smiled down at him.

"What do I look like, a nark? I ain't gonna tell on you, don't worry. You didn't break anything, I see no reason to put anyone in trouble. Here, I'm all done with this map, can you give it back to your sitter and tell her thanks for me? I gotta run. Y'all have fun." She handed that map back to Dan's friend and made her departures, eager not to be spotted by Russell or his wife, should they be getting back as she was leaving.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked her when she'd made her way back to their concealed position on the opposite side of the street. She shook her head.

"The wife's not there, just the babysitter. She wouldn't let me in past the main hallway. But I didn't see any sign of criminal activity. It's just... Nah, never mind, it's probably nothing."

"What?" Sherlock asked her. He needed to know all the details to work with. "What did you see?" Beck bit her lip.

"I'm not really sure how to explain it. It's not so much what I saw as, kind of, what I felt. Something was off. And I don't know what." She (at long last) made her way back to the dig site for hopefully the next day at least, still turning over the inside of Seth Russell's house in her mind. She _knew_ something was wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on what, no matter how hard she might try. Her mind kept coming back to the idea that it had something to do with the kids she'd met in the hallway, the ones that had almost dropped the vase. However, it wouldn't get her all the way home, instead stopping just short of figuring out what she desperately wanted it to. She fell into an uneasy sleep after a few hours of cataloging really dead fish, still willing herself to think of what the anomaly was. It wasn't until she was asleep that her mind obeyed her command and brought it to the surface.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Man this chapter came out long. O.O Great thanks to everyone who reviewed (I have eighty now. _Eighty._ You people are friggin' amazing, you know that?) especially to LinzPhantom, who gets an internet high-five for guessing the plot twist so ridiculously fast it made my head spin. And of course, needless to say, I love your feedback. Hint hint. ;) So just on a side note, I was joking with my friend the other day and I told her this is the chapter where the story title actually starts making sense. And it only took me this long. :P It's not just random words I stuck together. So enjoy and *cough* review and have a happy Friday. ^-^**

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><p>Beck rolled over in her bed, jerking awake and taking a minute to remember where she was. Her heart was racing from the dream she came out of and she sat up straight, rubbing her face. She looked at her clock- two in the morning. She grabbed her phone and texted Sherlock.<p>

_Are you awake? _A couple minutes later she got a response.

_He was trying to be, but right now he's failing spectacularly. –John_

She grinned to herself. She was very well acquainted with Sherlock habit of staying awake for days on end and his insistence that he wasn't tired got more and more amusing to watch as he got closer and closer to falling asleep. There was just something about the way he acted when he was right on that edge that was funny, like it was when you watched a six year old do the same thing. Of course, that was probably exactly_ why_ it was- the detective was normally so standoffish and composed that watching him act like a kid was nice. It sort of took the edge off of him. She shook her head, remembering why she was trying to contact him, and texted John back.

_Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible. It's about the case. _She put the phone down and lay back in the bed, trying to gather her thoughts. She had to be certain-sure about what she suspected; she remembered the other boy with Dan at Russell's house. If she could talk to him again… She went back to sleep, still turning things over in her head. Tomorrow was going to be a hell of a day.

She woke up properly a few hours later and texted Sherlock again, sighing with relief when he answered it this time. She told him she'd be there in an hour and went to get a lift into town. The rain that had spent the last weeks coming down in torrents had amped back up again, after a brief but welcomed interlude, making Beck glad that she'd thought ahead and brought an umbrella along with her to England. She got to Baker Street almost exactly an hour later, shaking some stray liquid out of her hair. After Mrs. Hudson had let her in, she hurried up the seventeen steps to 221B and knocked on their door.

"Hey Beck," John greeted her, somewhat tiredly. The case had been going on for almost a solid week now, between finding the killer and then engaging in the stalemate with Russell at Scotland Yard yesterday. It was running John ragged and even starting to wear Sherlock thin, although matters with his father hadn't been helping the situation either.

"How did the questioning go?" Beck asked him. "I suppose there's no chance he told 'em anything?"

"You suppose right," Sherlock interjected from the couch. "He didn't say anything except 'I didn't kill the bastard', which doesn't get us anywhere on that front. But he was obviously lying, so I think it's safe to say we have the right man in our sights." Beck arched an eyebrow at him.

"You've already been sayin' that for three days, brother; don't pretend at modesty. It doesn't sit well on you." She grinned at her old friend, who smirked at her before turning back to his computer.

"What did you want to talk about? You said it was urgent when you texted me." She nodded, any trace of a joking atmosphere long gone.

"It's about the case. You know how I was sayin' yesterday that there was something off about those kids? I've remembered what it is." Her face was grave, and both men began to get a hint of what she was saying. "They were like you and me, back in the day."

"You think Russell's abusing his children?" John asked quietly.

"At least the one," Beck responded. "I don't know for certain, but it's a damn good guess, I think. I want to find out who the little one's friend is that was with him yesterday; if we could talk to him alone we might be able to find out for sure." Sherlock nodded slowly.

"I'm going down to Scotland Yard today. I'll tell Lestrade to find out who the boy is. We can't go back to Russell's house to ask; the babysitter will have told him about you by now and even if she hasn't they'll hardly tell you about their child."

"So how can we find out who he is, then?" John asked.

"School records," Sherlock answered. "They almost certainly go to school together, and they're probably the same age. We can talk to Dan Russell's teacher and see if there's anyone he spends time with especially." He gave no outward indication that he was bothered by Beck's revelation, but the two knew him well enough to tell that it was getting to him on some level. Of course, they also knew him well enough not to bring it up with him. He and John got their coats and Beck reopened her umbrella as the stepped out onto the drenched street and hailed a cab.

The rain was hitting the ground with such force that it was creating a sort of mist on the pavement, the drops angling down sideways and stinging when they hit. Thunder rolled overhead at regular intervals, accompanied by flashes of lightning both between the clouds and onto the ground. It was suitable weather for such a grim conversation and an attempt to catch a murderer. The three got into the cab as fast as they could manage, hoping to preserve some of their remaining dryness, and made their way through to Scotland Yard.

By the time they got to the Yard and talked to Lestrade about phoning the teacher, it was almost lunchtime, not that you'd know it by looking outside. They caught Dan Russell's teacher right at the start of her lunch hour, and she was quick to confirm the name of his friend- Jeffrey Neely, who was in her eight-year-olds class with him. The two were practically inseparable, she said. Wherever one went, so did the other, and she'd never seen a time when they didn't leave school together.

Lestrade thanked her and spoke to the principal, trying to ascertain the phone number of Jeffrey's parents to ask if their son could speak to them. It was three hours from school letting out, but his parents said when he got home that day they'd bring him to Scotland Yard. "He's not in trouble, is he?" his mother asked anxiously.

"No, he's not in any kind of trouble, don't worry," Lestrade reassured her. "We just need to ask him about something."

"Okay, I'll bring him down there the moment he's done with school," his mother promised. True to her word, she brought Jeffrey by at three thirty that afternoon, rushing in to get out of the ever-present rain. "I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade," she told Beck, who smiled at her.

"Right this way; I assume you're Mrs. Neely?" She nodded.

"Yes, he called and asked if I could bring Jeffrey to speak to him. He said he wasn't in trouble."

"He's not," Beck reassured her. "We just wanted to talk to him about something." She led Jeffrey and his mother up to Lestrade's office; he wasn't currently occupying it, but Sherlock and John were there. "Hey, they're here; one of y'all go find Lestrade." Jeffrey looked at her with sudden realization.

"You're that lost tourist lady Dan and I saw yesterday- what are you doing here?" She gave him a smile.

"It's a ridiculously long story." Lestrade came into his office with an apology.

"I didn't mean to take so long, sorry about that. I had to dig up a file for something." He took a seat behind his chair and gestured for Jeffrey and his mother to take the ones placed opposite. "Now, Mrs. Neely, we wanted to talk to your son about his friend Daniel."

"Daniel Russell?" Jeffrey's mother asked.

"Yes; assuming it's okay with you?" She nodded.

"Of course it is, but I can't think what you would want to ask him; Daniel's a lovely boy, and certainly not a trouble maker."

"No, it's nothing like that," Lestrade reassured her. He turned to Jeffrey, treading carefully as he started. "Jeffrey, and I need you to tell me the truth no matter what, I promise no one will get mad at you- does Daniel's father hit him?" Jeffrey took on a deer in the headlights look and didn't answer. Beck, John, Sherlock, and Lestrade all traded glances with one another, their suspicions more or less confirmed. Lestrade sighed to himself and turned back to face Jeffrey. "I need an answer, Jeffrey. Like I said before, no one's going to get upset with you. Just tell the truth."

Jeffrey looked down at his feet and held onto his mother's hand as he responded, "I can't tell. I promised Dan not to say anything." His mother tried to persuade him to answer.

"Come on, Jeffrey. Tell him the truth; it'll help." He remained obstinate, his promise to his friend overriding everything else. At the back of the room, Beck bit her lip. She couldn't help but flash back to when she was in that same position, all the confusion she knew he was experiencing right now. Except in her case it had gone on for nine painful years, until it had all come crashing to a conclusion. She didn't want that for Jeffrey, or more importantly for Dan; she couldn't let either of them live with that. She stepped forward and spoke to the room at large.

"Would you mind if I tried talking to him, ma'am?" Jeffrey's mother looked startled, but nodded her consent. She knelt down in front of him, giving him a small grin. "Hey dude; would you believe I know how you feel right now?" He knitted his eyebrows and looked at her.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes," she answered him. "And I know how much it sucks, too. You want to help him, and I know that, but I also know that the very best way you could help is by telling us the truth."

"I can't," he answered again. "I promised."

"I know you did."

"I don't want to break my promise; if I break my promise he'll be all alone."

"No he won't, trust me there." She was speaking only to Jeffrey, but she was acutely aware that everyone else was hanging onto her words. "See, that's what I thought to, when a friend of mine was right where yours is now. He asked me not to tell anyone, so I didn't. But that was a mistake."

"I just want to help him," Jeffrey said, beginning to sound upset. Beck gave him a sad smile.

"I know; like I said, I've been where you are. I know you just want to help him. I know that… he's your friend, and you care about him; and that's why you've kept his secret, because he asked you to. And because, you'd do anything for him, and you just want him to be happy." Up until then Beck had managed to keep her emotions admirably hidden, but as she spoke to Jeffrey, some of them slipped through to the surface. Her words hit John like a ton of bricks as he looked at Sherlock, who had gone paler than normal, staring off into the wall like he was trying to bore a hole through it with his mind.

There was complete silence in Lestrade's office until Jeffrey spoke again. "What happened to him?" She gave him another smile, but one less sad than the last.

"He still is one of my best friends, and he's a great man, too." Jeffrey looked at his lap again and sighed.

"You were right. His dad _has_ been hitting him. I saw him do it, but Dan asked me not to tell anyone. He said no one would believe him." The adults all exchanged more glances before Lestrade spoke.

"We'll need to talk to your son again, Mrs. Neely, but I think he can go home for now; he's had enough for one day." Jeffrey's mother nodded and guided her son out of the room as Lestrade got ready to jump through the necessary hoops to question Seth Russell for the second time in two days. Beck took one of the recently abandoned chairs and leaned back, rubbing her face. Her emotions were still writhing beneath the surface and she summed them up in three words.

"Well, that sucked." John sighed and looked around the room, suddenly realizing something.

"Where's Sherlock?" The other two looked around, but the detective had slipped out without any of them noticing. Beck sighed and stood up, turning to John.

"I think _you_ should probably go find him right now; I'll reckon neither of us are in a fit state to be talking to each other right about now- too much old stuff coming to the surface. Besides, I don't care if I have to stand under an awning with half a dozen detectives on their smoke break, I need to go outside." Beck headed downstairs wearily, leaving John and Lestrade alone in the office.

"Am I the only one who wants to kill something?" Lestrade remarked. John shook his head.

"Nope; I've wanted to for about three days now." He sighed and shook his head, pushing off from the wall. "It's just a mess all around. I'd better go find Sherlock." He left the room and went into the hallway, searching for some sign of the taller man's passing. He caught Sally out of the corner of his eye and called out to her. "Hey Sally, have you seen Sherlock in the last couple of minutes? I'm trying to find out where he was headed."

"He went down the stairs," she called back. "He didn't look too happy about something."

"Thanks," he called back, hurrying on. The same question posed to the receptionist told him that Sherlock had headed down toward the archive room in the basement. John ran down there, searching through the rows of boxed up files before he found the detective sitting leaning against the leg of a table. John came up and sat across from him, letting him speak on his own time.

"What are you doing here, John?"

"What do you think?" he answered. "Lestrade's working on getting Russell in for questioning again. It upset you, didn't it? That conversation in there." Sherlock gave him a glare that would make anyone but John know when they were beat. But, of course, the shorter man didn't give an inch. "What was it about it?" Sherlock finally responded, looking closely at a closed box to the right of John's head.

"She never told me how she'd felt before." John nodded slowly.

"Well, you heard it just now- she cares about you, just like I do, just like Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"Not that," Sherlock responded. "I know she cares about me; she'd never told me how it felt to be the one keeping the secret, watching and not being able to do anything." John sighed, knowing what Sherlock was talking about.

"You heard what she told Jeffrey. She thought she was keeping you from being alone."

"It doesn't matter!" Sherlock burst out. "I should never have asked her to keep that secret for me. I should have just gone to the police."

"Sherlock, there are always going to be things you should have done, but it doesn't matter now," John told him gently. "What happened back then was a mess, and yes, it should never have happened, but that doesn't make it your fault- none of it was ever your fault, or Beck's. And now you've got the chance to change that for someone else. Not too many people get to redo the past, you know." He smiled at his friend. "This time around you get to do what someone should have done for you." The two men remained in the archive for a while, sitting toe to toe in silence. Waiting for their chance to redo the past.

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><p>Beck finished her breather and went back up to Lestrade's office. He had finished his calls and was waiting for approval to bring Russell in for further questioning. She took a seat back in one of the chairs and gave a short, harsh laugh. "Well, this week has been a right kick in the shins, hasn't it?"<p>

"At least it's looking slightly up," he answered without conviction. "We're about to arrest a real bastard, if you'll excuse the language, and close up a murder case." She nodded slightly, still looking sad. Lestrade looked at her for a moment and spoke on instinct. "You don't have to regret anything, you know. The past is the past, and there's nothing you can do to change it now."

"I know," she responded. "But I have a hard time believing it every now and again."

"Well, look at it this way," he told her, not knowing he was almost echoing what John had said to Sherlock, "you just changed that same course for someone else. Two more kids are going to be safe, and Jeffrey's not going to have to be in the same position you were." She nodded slowly, starting to feel some of her sadness lessen.

"You've got a shot at it too, you know," she remarked. "Changing the past and all that. You can do what none of the cops did back then- listen, and do something about it instead of waiting and ignoring it." She gave a slight laugh. "I guess it's like a cosmic do-over. We blew it last time so this is our second take and we can get it right." Even though they were in two different places, everyone was thinking and waiting for the same things. This time they would fix it, and not wait until things were almost too late. This time, what had actually happened back then would be replaced by what should have happened. This time, no one would mess it up.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Hahaha, only... slightly less late than the last one! Aren't y'all proud? Yeah, didn't think so. Anyways, as usual, everyone who reviewed is absolutely amazing because I really think I'm going to break 100 of 'em with this story and that makes me very, very happy. :D So, that was kind of a (not) subtle hint for more reviews. :) I like hearing what you think. I really do. And there is a fight scene coming in the next chapter, too. I promise. ^-^**

It was no hard matter to get Seth Russell back in for questioning, but it was another entirely to try and hold him. Sherlock, John, and Beck waited on the other side of the two-way mirror while Lestrade questioned Russell for the second time that day.

"Is that why you killed Thomas?" he asked. "Because he knew you were abusing your children?" Russell stared at him wordlessly. He had been silent ever since they had picked him up again, refusing to answer Lestrade with even a word. The Detective Inspector tried again.

"You're in a really bad spot right now, you know. You're the only person with any kind of reason to have killed Thomas; we know he was going to turn you into the police. He even had your information on his computer. And we have a witness." In spite of himself, Russell started at that, looking worried for just a brief second before settling down again. "A friend of your son's; he saw you hit your child. So we can definitely pin you for that, and from there it's not too much further to proving that you're the one who murdered Thomas Howard. So, we could go through all of that, or you could confess and make it easier on everyone."

Russell continued to stare at him, unresponsive. Lestrade matched his gaze for a minute, before saying, "Fine, we'll go with the hard way then." He left the interrogation room and circled around to the other side of the mirror.

"He's not going to say anything," Sherlock told him.

"Well, we can hold him for forty-eight hours before we have to charge him with something or let him go," Lestrade answered. "We need to get enough evidence to charge him with one or the other in that time."

"I'd go for the murder one," Beck said. "It's mighty unlikely his wife'll let us talk to her kids. Not after we arrested her husband for the second time in two days."

"I don't suppose it makes a difference to her that her husband's an abusive murderer," John commented. Beck shrugged.

"Well, _we_ know that, but we're looking at it from the outside. She, on the other hand, is married to him and has two kids with him. It's ain't much of a surprise that she'd have a little trouble believing that he killed somebody."

"What was Thomas Howard's cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

"Um, a blow to the back of the head caused by a blunt object of some sort. They still don't know where he was killed, though. There was no trace of anything in his wounds apart from the sand that washed in during the flood."

"It's doubtful that he was killed near Russell's house; the neighbors would have heard something and raised an alarm," Sherlock postulated. Beck frowned in concentration and then offered another opinion.

"Well, they'd only hear anything if he was killed _outside_ the house, wouldn't they though? If he was killed inside the house during the middle of the night, no one would be awake and even if they were it's unlikely the neighbors would hear anything."

"Well yeah, but wouldn't the family?" John asked, bringing up the flaw in the theory. "There's no way he'd be able to hide that from his wife, at the very least." Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. They only had two days at the most to figure out where Russell had killed Howard and what he had done it with.

"Beck, when you got a look around their house, did you see anything that could have been used as a murder weapon?" Sherlock asked. "It's unlikely that he planned on murdering Howard, so he probably used something that he had on hand when Howard confronted him." Beck bit her lip and thought back to her brief time in Russell's hallway.

"Nothing offhand, no; but I thought Russell knew Howard was onto him. What about that fight they had in the bar?" Sherlock shook his head.

"No, that was over Russell insulting the way Thomas was raising his girlfriend's children. Nathan Harris told us about that, remember? That was probably why Howard got so angry with him."

"Yeah, because he knew what he was being compared too," John snorted. "No wonder he lost it at him."

"But then the question remains, how did Howard find out Russell was abusing his children in the first place?" Lestrade remarked. "He had no connection to him apart from work, and then when he did, why on earth would he tell Russell that he knew? It would only be putting him in danger. It makes no sense."

"Well I might be able to help with that," Beck told him. "He was angry at him for what Russell was doing and he wasn't thinking his best. My dad did exactly the same thing." She didn't elaborate further, but she took the file from Lestrade and scanned it over. "Was there any kind of fiber in the wound? Like carpet or pet hair?" Lestrade frowned.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"He might have just counted on the river to wash anything in the wound away," Sherlock said. "If that was the case, there might be something still trapped in there, near the back. Is the body still in the morgue?" It was, but Molly wouldn't be able to get to it until tomorrow at the earliest. She had other cases to do and now that Howard's autopsy had been done she couldn't go back to him until she'd finished her other work.

"Can we afford to wait a day?" John asked. "After all, none of those forensic tests are particularly quick."

"True, but we might be able to get a rush on those if I can get the right paperwork in," Lestrade responded. "Still, you have a point. We're going to be cutting it fine no matter what."

"As long as we find something the time constraint doesn't make a difference," Sherlock remarked, staring through the two-way mirror at Seth Russell. Finally, Beck posed the question that had been lurking at the back of everyone's mind.

"What're we gonna do if we don't find anything before we've got to let him go?" They all glanced at each other, no one sure what the answer was. Finally, Lestrade shrugged.

"We'll keep looking; there's got to be some evidence somewhere that can help us prove that he's the one who murdered Howard. All we have to do is find it." Lestrade had to go back to his office to prepare the paperwork for the rush request, leaving Sherlock, John, and Beck to go back to Baker Street for the evening.

The three wandered around the sitting room; or rather, Beck wandered while John typed furiously on his laptop and Sherlock stretched himself out on the couch like an unfurling coil to think. Finally, Beck blew a sigh from between her pursed lips and swung back toward the couch.

"Here, scooch," she said. "Let me sit down too." Sherlock didn't answer, but he sat up, instead leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. The rain continued to pound down against the windows of 221B and a fire burned in the fireplace. Beck soon found herself falling asleep to the sound of the rain until finally she was out cold, slipping sideways to lean against Sherlock, who only glanced at her occasionally in his thought, careful not to move.

John glanced over at the pair, smiling to himself; it wasn't often that Sherlock allowed himself to be touched at all, let alone used as a human pillow. He watched with even greater amusement as Sherlock himself began to fall asleep until he and Beck were both down for the count on the couch. Looking at the pair as he continued to type quietly, he felt a surge of affection for the both of them that was coupled with relief that they were finally getting a break, even if it was just a night's worth.

Soon enough, but after the other two, his own eyelids began getting heavy and he closed his laptop quietly, setting it aside and settling himself down in his chair; he decided against going to his room because they could very likely get a call early in the morning and he didn't want to miss it. Not long after he settled down, he too was asleep to the sound of the rain, and 221B Baker Street experienced its first peaceful night in over a week.

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><p>The next day was far from peaceful, however; chaotic was more the appropriate description. They were up at nine when Molly called to say that she could start examining the head wound for any residual evidence. They didn't waste any time going into the Yard, where Lestrade met them and told them that Russell was still refusing to say anything.<p>

"We've got until the end of the day to either get something out of him or get some forensics to back up our accusation so we can keep him," he informed them grimly. Their chances were not good- forensic tests moved a hell of a lot slower than people thought they did.

"Did you manage to get them rushed?" John asked. Lestrade nodded.

"Luckily, I was able to do that, but that's no guarantee that anything we find will make it back before we have to release Howard."

"And that's _if_ we find anything," Beck pointed out. "Howard spent a good few hours under fast-moving water; any trace evidence may have been washed away."

"Speaking of fast-moving water…" Lestrade muttered, glancing out the window. True to English form, the rain was coming down just as hard as it had been yesterday, rendering thirty seconds outside the equivalent of two hours of drying time.

Sherlock's phone rang sharply, starting them all out of their thoughts. He flipped it open.

"Molly; what did you find?" He listened for a few seconds, jaw clenching, before he hung up the phone. "There was nothing evident in the wound; it was all washed out by the river."

"So we got all of nothing, then?" Beck commented. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely surprised- none of them were. After laying so long in the Thames and then having died almost two weeks ago, it was a faint hope to think that anything might have been preserved.

"The murder weapon was almost certainly something he had in his house," Sherlock intoned. "We need to search it and test the possibilities for blood residue."

"Yeah, but to do that we need a warrant, and to get a warrant we need probable cause, which we don't have," Lestrade told him.

"What about what Jeffrey Neely said?" Beck asked. "Could we keep him or get a warrant for that?" Lestrade shrugged, looking dubious.

"Maybe, but that depends on whether or not anyone else believes that Jeffrey was telling the truth." The four looked at one another in silence. There was no getting around it. They didn't have sufficient evidence to keep him for the child abuse or Thomas Howard's murder until they could get concrete proof, and they couldn't get concrete proof without him being out of the way.

"We're going to have to let him go," John stated, saying what they all thought. None of them bothered to disagree. They would just have to keep working on the case and find the evidence and hope that no matter what they weren't too late. They kept working right up until Russell was let out of holding, before meeting back in Lestrade's office.

"He's gone," Lestrade said. "I tried to get a warrant, but they keep saying that they need more evidence. Just like we thought they would."

"What about his kids?" Beck asked. "Can't we at least get them out of his house? They're in danger; by now he'll know that his secret's out and he won't like that. We have to get them somewhere else."

"I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises short of going... extra-legal, so to speak." Beck sighed and rubbed her forehead. It was like it had been the last time, right before she and her family had left England. She had gone to the police and they had said there was nothing they could do, and then everything had blown up on them and the police didn't get there until it was very nearly too late. Still, though, at least Lestrade was actually trying; _that_ was definitely an improvement.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, noticing the detective's absence. All three of them looked around for Sherlock, but wherever he'd gone, he'd well and truly snuck out on them. Beck frowned; where on earth could that man have gone? He knew they had a case to solve to stop- oh... Oh crap. She knew where he'd gone. She knew _exactly_ where he'd gone. She rushed out of the room, in too much of a hurry to explain, leaving a thoroughly confused John and Lestrade behind her, and rushed out of the building.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I'm going to have to beg y'all's forgiveness for how late this is, but in my defense I spent the last week cleaning up the yard and that's why I couldn't write. And by 'cleaning up the yard' I mean, cleaning up after a day of sixty-mile-an-hour straightline winds. Because tornado season. In Tornado Alley. Woohoo. O_o But anyways, my point is, I've got it finished now and it's nice and long and there's a fight scene so I hope that makes up for it. :) And of course as always I love to hear what you think and have an awesome Thursday. ^-^**

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><p>Lestrade gave John the sort of long-suffering look he almost always reserved for Sherlock. "Now where on Earth is <em>she<em> going, then?" John shook his head and shrugged. "God, this is a bloody mess, isn't it?" It was Lestrade's turn to shake his head. "And even after all this there's still Sherlock's father to deal with."

"I don't know, I think Mycroft's taken care of him," John replied. "He seems to believe that his dad's not going to be a problem anymore." Lestrade looked dubious.

"Yeah, but if he's where those two got their brains from we might just be underestimating him. Ah well, we'll see, I guess; in the meantime let's figure out where the hell those two have dashed off to." John nodded slowly, putting his exhausted brain to work- the last couple of weeks had taken their toll on everybody, him included, and he would be more than glad to see this case over. But that, of course, meant finding evidence and more importantly finding Sherlock and Beck.

"Let's think back through; we know that wherever Beck went, it was where Sherlock went. We'd just been trying to find out where he'd gone when she gasped and ran out, right?" Lestrade nodded.

"But he pulls that trick all the time- what's to say that this time was any different? He could have just been doing what he always does."

"But she grew up with him, remember? She knows he does that, but she still chased after him. Something must be different about this time."

"But what?" Lestrade asked. Both men sank into a silence, each thinking furiously. They had just been forced to release Seth Russell, knowing that he was a murderer, and they had been trying to find out where to go from there. And then they had looked up and Sherlock was gone; not a minute later, Beck followed him but didn't say where she was headed. Where could Sherlock have possibly gone that had caused such concern for her? It was John who thought of it first.

"Shit," he breathed, staring at Lestrade, who looked back at him in concern. He grabbed his jacket and left the room almost as fast as Beck had, hollering over his shoulder to the DI, "Get the police to Seth Russell's house as fast as you can manage it, and meet me there!" It only took Lestrade a fraction of a second to catch on.

"Donovan!" he shouted through the doorway, "Get the car, we're going to Russell's house right now. Get some uniforms and an ambulance over there too." He and Sally rushed to the car, ignoring the downpour and turning on the sirens. Lestrade had lost track of John, but he knew exactly where he, and the other two, were headed.

"What's going on, sir?" Sally asked. He glanced at her and explained the whole situation as fast but accurately as he could.

"Russell, Seth Russell, the one we think is the murderer who's abusing his children, we were holding him but we had to let him go this afternoon because we couldn't find any solid evidence. Sherlock's gone after him now and Beck's followed him and John's trying to get there before they get _themselves_ killed as well." Sally looked confused.

"Why on earth would he go after him? The Freak's a lot of things but stupid's not one of them, even he has to know that's a bad idea." Lestrade shook his head and drove faster, trying to make it in time.

"He's not thinking straight about this; look, it's a long story," he continued, cutting her off before she could question him further, "but we have to get there before they do."

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><p>Beck silently wished her taxi driver to go faster than the speed limit, tapping her fingers against the empty seat next to her as she stared out into the pouring rain. It had picked up even harder than before, coming down in sheets so solid that she could barely see out the window. Nice weather for this kind of fight, she supposed. She bit her lip, wondering if there was any way she could dissuade Sherlock from doing this. She pulled out her phone and sent him a text.<p>

_Don't do something stupid. _No response.

_If you insist on doing something stupid, at least wait for me. Please. _Still no response.

_I know where you're headed; seriously, don't go alone. You'll get yourself hurt. _

She finally gave up on expecting him to answer, sliding her phone back into her pocket and resuming her tapping. She knew Sherlock had a five minute head start on her and it wasn't that far to Russell's house; all she hoped for was that he could hold his own until he had some backup. She had a thought, pulling her phone out again and calling John.

"John, we're-"

"Yeah, we know where you're headed." He cut her off before she could finish, sounding harried. "Did this being a really, really bad idea not occur to either of you?" It was a rhetorical question but she answered it anyway.

"We're not fans of thinking our impulses through, believe it or not." She gave a slight ghost of a laugh, mind racing. "Figured you'd know that by now." John made an admirably skeptical noise.

"That doesn't mean I have to like it. Do you think you can get there quick enough to help him out?"

"That's what I'm hoping," Beck answered him. "He's got about five minutes on me but that doesn't mean he's got no chance. He's a pretty decent fighter himself, you know. I'll call you when I get there."

"Be careful," John intoned worriedly.

"Oh, don't worry, my pride won't let me lose a fight." She cancelled the call, returned the phone to her pocket (for real this time), and turned to the cabbie. "We almost there?" He nodded; she recognized the area now, but she'd only been there once before and that was coming from the opposite direction. It would be a lie to say that she wasn't nervous as they drove up Seth Russell's street, but truth be told any nervousness she felt was strongly overwhelmed by her growing desire to kick this guy's ass from here to Scotland. It was well past time _someone_ did, after all, and she hoped that she'd get a little of the enjoyment in.

Sure enough, the fight had already started by the time she got there. Russell's front door was standing open, left there by his wife and their two children, who had run out of the house when the fight began. Beck launched out of the cab and ran toward them. "Are they still inside?" His wife nodded. "Okay, y'all just stay here, there's more help coming; just hang tight." She realized she was repeating herself a bit, but she was in such a rush that her accent was getting much stronger and she needed to get her point across.

She bolted into the house, following the muffled sounds of the fight until they got clearer and clearer. "Sherlock!" she yelled. She was caught in a junction, unsure which way to go. "Where are you?"

"In the kitchen," he yelled back. He let out a wordless exclamation and there was a thunk against the wall. Beck followed his voice to the kitchen, where he and Russell were in close quarters, gripping each other's collars. Russell had Sherlock pinned up against the wall, bulkier and stronger than the more wiry detective, but Sherlock was pushing back with almost matching force. He braced himself against the wall, using it as leverage to shove Russell away from him inch by inch and closer to the counter.

Beck ran into the kitchen, taking in their positions instantly, and let out a shrill whistle. While Sherlock could see what she was planning, Russell was facing away from her, caught by surprise when the loud noise sounded behind him. He started, losing his grip on Sherlock, and the detective shoved him backwards towards the kitchen counter and slipped away from the wall. "Ain't you glad I got here when I did?" Beck joked.

"Indeed I am," Sherlock answered as he dodged haphazard left hook, countering with one of his own that glanced off of Russell's side. "Is anyone else behind you?" Beck took advantage of the fact that Russell's back was turned and landed a blow on his left shoulder, momentarily distracting him as she carried on the conversation.

"John's pretty near after me but I've got a minute or two on him; I don't know where anyone else is after that." Russell shoved her backwards and she landed against the wall on her shoulder, letting out a yell that may or may not have included some very bad language. Russell had returned his attention to Sherlock and rushed him again, trying to get him back against the wall. Instead, Sherlock swept his leg in an arc and knocked Russell's feet out from under him, knocking the man to the floor. It was a good plan, but it was slightly hindered by the fact that Russell held onto his collar on the way down, dragging Sherlock along with him.

Beck recovered her ground as the two men landed on the floor with a resounding thump. She heard a car door slam in the distance and the part of her brain that wasn't occupied with the fight registered that it must be John pulling up outside. Russell had rolled on top of Sherlock, hands still gripping his shirt. He pulled his hand back, getting ready to hit the detective in the face, but Beck launched herself forward and kicked his hand away; this gave Sherlock the opportunity to shove the bulkier man off of him and recover some of his footing. He was still at a disadvantage though- he had been fighting for a while before Beck had gotten there and the hard landings against two walls and the floor were starting to take their toll on him. Beck took advantage of Russell still clutching his hand to pull Sherlock up off the floor.

"Go get John, he's outside," she told him. "I'll handle him." She jerked her head at Russell but Sherlock was having none of it.

"He's too strong, I'm not leaving you alone."

"John'll never find his way here unless you get him," she answered. "And I am tougher than I look, I'll have you know. Plus I can just knock him out," she finished with a grin. They'd looked away from Russell for too long, though; he gave an inarticulate yell and lunged for them, taking the two by temporary surprise. On instinct Beck shoved Sherlock to the side, knocking him out of Russell's path, and then it was her turn to take a tumble to the floor.

All the breath left her body in a rush as she landed hard, striking the side of her head on the corner of the kitchen counter with a crack. Vaguely, she heard Sherlock yelling their location to John and the doctor's footsteps approaching and then weight leaving her chest as Sherlock tackled Russell with an angry yell of his own. Her head was spinning in circles but she didn't lose consciousness, though how much of that was due to her sheer willpower was up for debate.

Between the two of them, Sherlock and John managed to get Russell pinned down for good and restrained with a towel wrapped around his hands. "Beck?" Sherlock looked back at her and then turned to the doctor. "John!" He jerked his head at Beck and John turned to look at her. He swore quietly and rushed over to her, picking her up and putting her in one of the kitchen chairs.

"Okay, Beck, can you hear me?" She nodded once, squeezing her eyes shut as the brief motion sent her head spinning once more. "How many fingers have I got up?" He held up four fingers and she answered as such.

"Four, now can we get the hell out of here?" John gave a slight laugh.

"Good idea; Lestrade's not far behind me, we've got an ambulance coming." She scowled.

"I don't need a damn ambulance, I just need to get my head back right on my shoulders."

"You're bleeding," John countered, but he knew that it would do no good. "You can't just walk away."

"Do I need stitches?"

"No."

"Then I ain't going to the hospital. I'll be fine, I just need to… not move for a while, probably." Beck made to stand up but quickly lost her balance and sat back down. Russell was still muttering curse words under his breath and Beck turned to him with a glare. "Shut the hell up," she told him derisively. "Way you've been acting, you're lucky I don't kick _you_ in the head to see how it feels." The sounds of more car doors slamming drew their attention; the cavalry had arrived. John glanced at Sherlock and Beck.

"I'll go get them." He ran off and they heard the muffled sounds of him calling to Lestrade. He didn't really need to go find the Inspector himself, but he wanted to try and give them a bit of time together. Sherlock turned to her.

"Thanks for pushing me out of the way." She gave him a small smile.

"No problem. Thanks for pulling him off of me." Her smile got wider as she reflected on the brawl; despite the pain in her head, she'd be lying to say that it hadn't been satisfying. Sherlock seemed to read her thoughts.

"You enjoyed that didn't you?"

"More then you could possibly imagine. Call it a make-up fight for the last time." The police flooded the house, arresting and cuffing Russell properly before pulling him back out to the waiting police car. Beck was still refusing to go to the hospital so they simply gave up on trying to force her; if she was anything, it was stubborn-headed like her friend. John sighed and rolled his eyes and patched her up at Baker Street like he always did with Sherlock before they went back to the Yard to make their statements.

"Well if there's one thing we can learn from all of this, it's that you two need to learn how to restrain yourselves," Lestrade remarked. "No, listen to me, Sherlock; you nearly got both of yourselves killed. I don't care what you were intending to happen, you can't put yourselves in danger without telling anyone where you're even going." Beck arched an eyebrow at him.

"You really think that'll stop either of us next time?"

"No, I don't. But I can dream, can't I?" Beck had dinner with Sherlock and John at Baker Street that evening to celebrate the case being over. Of course, there was still the obvious issue of Sherlock's father to deal with, but they deliberately put that to the back of their minds. They were going to relax, for once.

After she left, Beck decided to go to the dig site rather than back to the campsite; it was only ten in the evening and she had work to catch up on. Lots of it. The tent would shield her from the rain and she could get a little solitude and maybe get some of the two weeks of backlogged research finished. She bid them farewell and went out to the site, fleeing into the tent as fast as she could.

Since the rain had picked up so ferociously in the last few days, the actual site had become just as inundated with water as they had been originally and it was once again cut off. Luckily they still had the fossils they had collected in the meantime so their research wasn't at a _complete_ halt, just a temporary one. Beck sighed quietly and squinted at the nearly microscopic form in front of her, wishing her growing headache away; ah well, that was the price to pay for getting into a fistfight with a guy roughly twice your size. She was lucky she wasn't more injured than a little bash to the head. The solitude of the tent and the rain drumming steadily against the top relaxed her until she was almost tired, but some sixth sense kept her alert and watching; she rubbed her eyes, keeping her ears drawn for any sounds until finally, near midnight, she cast it off as nothing. The last couple weeks had been making her paranoid, that was all. She yawned, sighed again, and turned off her microscope, stretching back in her seat and attempting to relax. The case wasn't over by any means, but it was in its final stages and soon enough things would be back to normal. Beck couldn't wish for that time to come soon enough.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Greetings and felicitations and I hope y'all have had an awesome week because mine really, really sucked... So I got on here today and I haven't been for a couple days and I just saw the new image manager thing. And it scares me. As does all technology. O.o Anyways, sorry this is a bit late but to make up for it I've given you over 3500 words and two fight scenes for the price of one! Now if only you would review to lift my spirits. :) I promise I answer, and I like to know that y'all are still reading. And maybe I'll figure out how to use the image thingy. Or possibly, accidentally blow up my computer. Regardless, enjoy and review! ^-^**

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><p><em>Beck flipped idly through a magazine while she waited for her mother to corral her younger brother and then her and Sherlock. Had she been so inclined, she could have helped, but she was tired and the article was interesting so she simply waited for her turn. She did, however, catch Sherlock out of the corner of her eye.<em>

_"Hey dude, mom's looking for us," she called over to him. He nodded slowly and then gave her a quizzical expression. _

_"I thought we weren't supposed to come here anymore." Beck gave him a small grin._

_"Yeah well, what the manager doesn't know won't hurt him, no? Besides, he totally overreacted. _Anyone_ could have knocked over that display, it wasn't our fault it couldn't stand being bumped into." _

_"We rammed the shopping cart into it. That's a bit more than a bump." _

_"Technicalities," she responded lightly. "Besides, it was dad that was with us, not mom; _she's _still allowed in here." Sherlock, devoid of anything to do, wandered over and leaned against the stand next to her, leaning in to look at her magazine. "Dude, get your hair outta my face," she grumbled, and he complied, moving a few inches away from her._

_"I saw Travis Jones the other day," he told her, his tone making it clear exactly what sort of opinion he harbored for his classmate. _

_"Being an idiot?" _

_"As always, but he was being an idiot in my direction this time. He keeps asking if we're going out." _

_"Ew!" Beck responded. "Has he forgotten that you're living at my house? Us dating would be the weirdest thing ever." _

_"That's basically what I told him," Sherlock answered. "He still doesn't believe me, though." He scowled and shook his head in exasperation. Suddenly his face darkened. Beck noticed his expression and followed his gaze._

_"Shit," she muttered quietly. Sherlock's father was standing thirty feet away from them. "He may not notice us," she whispered hopefully. Sherlock gave her a look that indicated his extreme doubt about that idea. She returned with one of her own. "Oh, don't you give me that look. I'm just making a suggestion." _

_"He's _going_ to spot us," Sherlock responded quietly. "It's only a matter of time."_

_"Well, we'll tell him where to stick it when he does." She was less confident then she sounded, far less. She wished her father were here, and not in Saudi for some mission. He'd been gone for two full days already and they had no idea how long it would be till he was back. They both would have felt far safer if he'd been there. The two glanced at each other, realizing that they were going to have to handle this one for themselves. Beck bit her lip a little and slipped her hand into Sherlock's almost subconsciously. _

_"We could just walk away," Beck muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "Find mom and get the hell outta here." Sherlock nodded slowly. Had her father been there he might have stood his ground, but the two of them alone wasn't worth the risk. _

_"Sounds like a plan." They tried to move away, but as soon as they started they knew it wasn't going to work. He spotted them before they'd gone ten feet. Rather than wait for him to start the confrontation, Beck made a snap decision, sick and tired of running away from that man. She stopped in the center of the aisle and swung around to face him, giving him her best 'scathing teenage girl' look while still keeping her hand in Sherlock's, albeit behind her back. _

_"So, what the hell do you want?" she deadpanned, still shooting him her best _look_. Her outer brazen confidence belied an internal tension that could have created a black hole inside her chest. _

_"What makes you think I want anything?" he answered, not cowed in the slightest by her gaze. Of course, she hadn't expected him to be; it was more for the sake of being impertinent than actually having a functional effect. She gave him a supremely disdainful look._

_"You always want something, do you really think we haven't picked up on that by now?" Robert advanced until he was no more than two feet away from them, but the children stood their ground, neither backing off even an inch. Beck noticed that, nowadays, Sherlock and his father were just about matched even in height, though Robert still had a couple inches' edge. He couldn't lean over his son any longer, and they all knew it. _

_"You're going to have to show your face at the house at some point," he growled at Sherlock. "You can't run away forever."_

_"It's not running away, it's _getting _away," Sherlock answered quietly. His father gave a cold smile that was infinitely more frightening than his glare._

_"You still live in the same town; I could come and get you any time I want to." _

_"Try!" Beck snarled at him, taking a step forward and jerking her chin up in defiance. _

_"Okay." Robert closed the gap between them suddenly and attempted to push her to the side and get to his son. She responded in kind, pushing her shoulder into his path and releasing Sherlock's hand to block Robert's way. He seized her wrist in a vice grip, but she refused to flinch or step aside. _

_"Go get help," she said over her shoulder. Sherlock looked around hurriedly, but he could see no one else. Beck twisted to face him and gave him a push. "Seriously, go; we need a hand here and I'm a little busy." Loath as he was to let her out of his sight, he knew she was right- the two of them didn't stand a chance unless they had some backup. Reluctantly, he ran towards the front of the store, looking for anyone he recognized. Once he had gone, Beck gave Robert an icy smile._

_"Well, looks like it's just the two of us, ain't it? Now why don't you let me the hell go before someone your own size gets back here?" He growled in response and tightened his grip; Beck brought her other hand up and dug her (long) nails into his exposed wrist, drawing a short curse from the taller man. He pulled on her free hand with his own, attempting unsuccessfully to twist hers loose. The two remained in that position until they heard a loud yell. _

_Sherlock had indeed gone for help, searching through the store for someone, anyone, who could give them help. Finally he gasped in relief as he spotted none other than Beck's father, an hour back from his mission and looking for his family. "Richard!" he called out urgently. The older man heard his tone._

_"What's wrong?" Sherlock explained the situation as fast as he could and Richard followed him back through the store. It was his yell that Beck and Robert heard as they stood locked in their impasse. "You get the hell away from my child!" he roared, jerking Robert backwards bodily, away from his daughter. He stood nose-to-nose with the other man; he was breathing fire and glaring ice. Finally Robert broke the stalemate, backing off slowly, but his look was no less grim then Richard's. He looked at his arm, which was actually bleeding slightly from where Beck's iron grip had sunk into it. _

_"You cut me," he growled._

_"Good," she answered forcefully. "Did something right, then." Richard waited until Sherlock's father had well and truly gone before he put his arms around the two kids. _

_"Are you two alright?" he asked tightly. They nodded, and he sighed in relief but his face was still hard. "Well, that was fun. Let's go, what do you say? I've got sixty hours' worth of sleep to catch up on and I'm pretty sure the manager's just caught sight of me." Beck arched an eyebrow._

_"'Sixty hours' as in sixty hours _awake_?" _

_"Yup…"_

_"O-kay then, I'm driving your car home. I'll follow mom."_

_"You don't have a license." She nodded slowly, acknowledging the point._

_"True, but I do have my personal safety and I intend to keep it that way." _

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><p>Beck knew they had gotten unbelievably lucky that day; had her father been even a couple of minutes later, both of them would have been in deep trouble, particularly her. She shook her head, casting out the memory and getting up to leave.<p>

Of course, she should have known it couldn't be that simple.

Seemingly out of nowhere there was a noise at the mouth of the tent. She froze silently in place, glad that she'd already turned off the light she was working with; the darkness and motion of the tent around her would make her much harder to see. She rationalized that it could just be another member of the team coming back to get something they'd forgotten. At midnight. Without announcing themselves. Yeah, that made sense, she thought sarcastically.

She slipped silently over to the far edge of the tent, the darkest part of all, and waited for the intruder to reveal himself. She already had a fair guess who it would be; there was only one option. It wasn't somebody else from the team and there was no point in a thief trying to steal a bunch of long-dead animals. Sure enough, her suspicions were confirmed- it was Robert. Of course, that then raised the fair question of how the hell he had found her there in the first place. The dig site was on the far outskirts of town, in an area where there were practically no people.

"I know you're still in here." Beck gave up her hiding place and decided to go with a hunch, sighing with irritation.

"You followed me, didn't you?"

"It wasn't difficult." She nodded slowly, snapping the light back on as she passed it.

"True; of course I wasn't looking out for you." She kicked herself mentally at the truth of her words. She knew he was still in town, she should have been watching for him. A small grin crossed her face as she thought about what Sherlock would say if he knew about her massive slip-up. Then she decided to get back to the matter at hand. "Well, can't even remember the number of times I've said this, but what the hell do you want?"

"Would you believe to talk?"

"Not in a million years," she answered.

"Good, because that would be a lie," he said coldly. She nodded again and switched the light back off on instinct, plunging the tent into darkness and turning each person into nothing more than a dull outline for the other.

"Let me guess," she told him, "you're here to 'get revenge' on me for sending you up-river. I've already heard about your little visit to Mycroft. Apparently he gave you a right verbal ass-kicking." He could hear the satisfied smile in her voice and she could hear the dangerous edge in his when he responded,

"He didn't say anything about staying away from you." Beck decided that it was high time she was out of his reach and cut him off at the pass, leaping over the empty table and racing down the gap between the tables and the wall before Robert could get his feet under him. She heard him yell inarticulately behind her and even with her head start she still barely beat him to the tent flap. Cursing, she realized that the keys to the car were still inside on the table. No way she could get to them now. It would have to be a game of evasion until she could get them back.

She bolted through the downpour towards the rugged ground of the site; even in the darkness and with the wet ground she knew it by heart, but Robert didn't have that advantage. She could easily hide from him there among the crags and ridges. However, if he did find her all the physical advantages would be with him- size, weight, his anger, and most importantly, Beck's head injury from earlier that day. It was costing against her, throwing her off-balance and making her slightly dizzy. A fight would only make that worse. She needed backup or she was screwed. Quickly, bending forward to conceal the glow from the screen, she pulled up the first number she came to, not even bothering to check whose it was, and sent them a text: _At the site. Help. –Beck._ She closed the phone as fast as she could and thrust it back into her pocket, praying silently that whoever got it would know what she was talking about.

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><p>Lestrade was still leaned over his desk finishing the Thomas Howard report when his phone buzzed with a text. He gave it a confused look. It was nearly midnight; who on earth would be sending him a message <em>now<em>? He shook his head. It was probably Sherlock telling him some minor detail he was utterly convinced the Detective Inspector had forgotten.

He pulled the phone towards him and hit the message button. It wasn't from Sherlock, it was from Beck. He frowned heavily; it made no sense to his tiring mind. What was she talking about? 'At the site,' that obviously meant the dig site she had been working at when not helping with the case. She had mentioned where it was several times. But why was she out there at midnight?

He got up and grabbed his jacket- no matter what she was doing there, there was a distinct urgency in the short message and Lestrade knew that she wasn't the type of person to ask for help until she absolutely positively needed it. Whatever was going on, it was serious. He quickly told Sally that he'd be going out for a bit and dashed to his car, heading through the silent, wet streets towards the dig site. Before he left, he sent Beck a text back, asking what was going on and what kind of emergency it was. He grew increasingly worried and pressed his foot harder and harder to the gas pedal as he continued to get no response.

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><p>Though he couldn't have known it, his answering text put Beck in more trouble than she was already in. She had been managing to successfully evade Robert until her phone lit up and sounded in her pocket. She cursed silently as he swung around to face her; her only chance now was to take off like a shot and maybe she could outrun him where she knew the land. She ran as fast as she could into the pelting rain, heading for the center where the ground was the roughest. It increased her chances of slipping, but it upped Robert's even more and that was what she needed right now.<p>

Sure enough, she grinned inwardly as she heard him fall behind her, but he was back up and back on her trail soon enough. She kept moving, hoping that her help would be there soon, as she veered to the right and headed for the parked- and useless without the keys- car. The closer to the road the better. She stopped in front of it, breathing heavily and waiting for him to catch up. She pushed her sodden bangs out of her face, laughing slightly; at the rate she was going it would be a week and a half before she dried out. The cold of the downpour was starting to affect her also, sending chills through her body now that she'd slowed.

"Hurry up, you bastard!" she bellowed into the darkness, deliberately goading him on; the angrier he was, the less likely he was to be able to fight competently. "I'm over here waiting for you!" He yelled wordlessly back and the two faced each other, ready to fight. Beck was a Texan; fighting was in her blood. But she was no fool, and she knew that the only way not to lose was to keep her wits as close about her as she could manage.

She backed against the car as he rushed at her, moving to the side in just the right fraction of a second to avoid getting trapped between it and him. Robert, unable to stop short enough, slammed into the driver's side door, getting his footing back soon enough. Beck wasn't going to be able to pull that trick again, she knew. He'd be watching out for it from now on. She had the advantage of speed and maneuverability but that couldn't keep her afloat for very much longer.

It was purely bad luck that she slipped when she did; the darkness, the slick ground, and her residual dizziness from the day's earlier antics combined to work against her and she stumbled backwards as she attempted to regain her footing, giving Robert a clean opportunity to get the upper hand. He leaped forward and shoved her, intending to knock her over backwards, but she grabbed onto his shirt to keep herself upright. One more knock to the head and she could be seriously injured. She took advantage of their tight quarters to swing her foot in a scythe and knock his legs out from under him, rolling to the side and releasing her grip on his shirt as she fell along with him.

As he got up with a roar, she grabbed a handful of mud and flung it towards his eyes, missing slightly in the nonexistent light. Still, it was close enough and he was momentarily distracted wiping the wet sediment out of his eyes. Beck got back to her feet as fast as she could, but the sudden fall and the rolling motion had triggered an ill-timed wave of dizziness, making her slower than she would have been normally. Robert stumbled up and pushed at her again; she backed up, but her foot went over a waist-high ledge and the rest of her soon followed. She flung out her arms to break the fall, wincing as the rough stone scraped her left forearm, but she wasted no time dwelling on it, pushing up with her hands and vaulting back up to the spot she'd been at before.

She and Robert prepared to face each other again, but Beck knew that she didn't have much longer before she'd be defeated. _Come on,_ she thought silently, _whoever I texted, you better get here soon. _Reinforcements could very well persuade Sherlock's father to give up the fight and right about now that was basically her only hope. As if he'd heard her thoughts, Lestrade's car screeched to a halt and he leapt out.

"Are you alright?" he called out as he ran toward her.

"I could use a hand," she responded, not taking her eyes off of Robert for even a moment. As she had hoped, Lestrade's presence convinced him to give up the game. He turned and bolted into the night, vanishing before the DI could get to him. Beck was too exhausted to chase him and Lestrade was too worried about her to do the same. She sank to the ground as her brain registered that the threat was gone and the fight was over.

"Who the hell was that?" Lestrade asked. He crouched down next to her, shining a pocket flashlight over her to check for injuries. She continued to catch her breath but laughed coldly.

"Who do you think it was?" she answered sarcastically.

"Robert?" She nodded.

"He followed me; just waiting for his shot to catch me alone." She blew out a breath in relief. "Boy howdy am I glad you got here when you did. I wouldn't have been able to hold him off much longer." With some help from Lestrade, Beck got up.

"Is that your car?" Lestrade gestured to the car the two had been circling when he'd pulled up. She nodded.

"I have the keys, but they're in the tent, I need to go get 'em then I can head back into town." He shook his head.

"Go on and get your keys, but I'm driving you back to London tonight. I can have one of the uniforms run you back out here to pick the car up tomorrow," he continued in response to her questioning look. "You're not in any state to be driving in the dark and the rain and no, you're not going to win this argument so go get your keys and then come back here." Secretly, Beck was glad that she didn't have to drive back to the hotel; Lestrade was right, she was too worn out right now. She sank into the passenger's seat and they started back. In spite of the fierce match she'd just been through, now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off her body reminded her that it was nearly one in the morning after a very, very long day. She rolled her eyes into the darkness and turned to Lestrade.

"You know, just once I'd like for something to go _right._"


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: SOBS MINDLESSLY OH MY GOSH I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE SOBS MINDLESSLY. I have finally, _finally _emerged from the crushing mire of real life to get back to the important task of writing fanfiction and I apologize dearly that I've been so stupidly busy it took me like two months to find the time to write this. T_T Although on the upside (in a sense) this chapter was specifically written to hit y'all right in the feels. Call it a coming back present. And the next one's going to so sad holy shit I'm going to cry buckets writing it. Just warning you. And of course, as always, reviews are welcome and reviewers are showered with love. ^-^**

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><p>"He did <em>what?<em>" Sherlock didn't yell. Yelling wasn't really his style, apart from when he was trying to intimidate some poor fool who had the misfortune to raise his ire. When he was _angry,_ really well and truly pissed off, he never yelled. If anything, his voice got quieter, cutting like a whip; his body seemed to sharpen, and his eyes took on a hard, dangerous edge that made everyone- even John- afraid to be near him. When he set his mind to something in this mode, no one and nothing could stop him and God help them if they tried.

After Beck had driven off Robert, Lestrade had realized that something needed to be done, so he had driven them both to Baker Street; obviously the man was ignoring all warnings given to him from every direction, and the fact that he apparently had the skill to get by Mycroft's watchers (and the intelligence to match it) boded ill for the rest of them. Lestrade had always felt a sort of protection for the younger man, a protection that now drove him to want to hunt Robert down and personally ensure that he never came anywhere near his son again. Right now, though, if Sherlock were to go up against his father, Lestrade knew who he'd put his money on and it wasn't the one with white hair.

"He caught me by surprise," Beck scowled, more irritated about that than about the fight itself. "I was so tired I didn't even notice him follow me out there. I can't believe I missed him." She sighed sharply.

"It's not as though you were looking for him," John pointed out gently. He could see that she was mad at herself and he knew that it would do no good for anybody for her to keep that up. "You thought he'd see sense and stay away; we _all _thought he would, but obviously we were wrong." Sherlock smiled grimly from beside the fireplace, still stiff as a board with anger.

"Well, he _has _sworn revenge on me, you know; he's not going to give up after letting that simmer for twelve years." The room fell silent, none of them wanting to break the silence Sherlock's dark observation had cast. It was true, what he said, but nobody else wanted to even think about what it must feel like to have your own father swear to 'get even' with you. John felt a rush of sympathy for his friend, but knew better than to express it openly; such a sentiment would only be greeted with scorn by the stoic detective and his pride wouldn't let him accept it anyway. But still, it lingered on the inside and John knew he'd have to work hard to stop Sherlock from noticing it or he would be in for an uncomfortable line of insults.

He shook his head internally and cast aside the feelings, taking a step forward. "Well I think he'll meet a nice line of resistance if he does," he responded. His voice was quiet but fierce, signifying his determination to stand by his friend no matter what. Sherlock glanced at him from the fireplace and nodded almost imperceptibly to his friend; it was his way of saying thank you. Because heaven only knew he'd _never_ be able to bring himself to say it out loud.

After that, the meeting broke up. Lestrade sighed wearily and drove Beck back to the hotel and then, exhausted, retired to his own house. He might have fallen asleep before he properly lain down, but it was a close-run thing. The thought flashed through his mind that he still hadn't finished the paperwork, closely followed by the thought of 'I'll do it tomorrow'.

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><p>Back at Baker Street, John could hear Sherlock pacing in his room downstairs, and he knew that the lanky detective was more troubled by his father's presence than he would admit to; <em>of course he is, stupid,<em> he thought with a metaphorical smack to the back of the head, _what the hell else would he be? How'd you like it if _your_ abusive father was trying to come back for you? _He shook his head and turned over to settle in more comfortably. It was a mess. Unfortunately it was a mess that he couldn't really do anything about, and that bugged him. John wasn't the type to sit back and wait, he was the type to get out and kick somebody's ass.

Down below, Sherlock finally settled in a while later; John hoped silently that he could get some actual sleep this time. Apart from his usual 'I don't sleep during cases' thing, every night since then he had been plagued by nightmares about his father, yelling loudly enough to rouse John and draw him to the detective's room. He didn't know if Sherlock remembered the nightmares, but he did know that he would if John were to wake him up and tell him, so he didn't. Instead, he did what he could, simply sitting on the edge of the bed and holding onto his friend's hand in the darkness.

At about three in the morning, John's hopes were dashed. A hoarse yell dragged him out of sleep and it didn't even take him a minute to figure out where it had come from. John sighed; he knew it was worse for Sherlock, but the continual nighttime awakenings were wearing him a little thin as well. Still, he didn't complain because it would do no good and after all, it wasn't as if Sherlock could help it. He rolled himself out of bed and hurried down the stairs, quietly opening Sherlock's door.

"What is it this time, Sherlock?" he breathed, but the taller man didn't stir. He gasped and clenched his fist, eyebrows knitted. "I can't wait for this to stop, but I don't know how to make that happen," John told the sleeping figure. "It's quite a tangle, isn't it?" As had become his custom over the last few nights, he reached out and took the detective's hand, which was still lying clenched outside of his sheet. After a few minutes, Sherlock began muttering under his breath.

"Go away… No, no. I won't let you. Stay away from me!" Sherlock tossed under the covers; with the state he was in, John was getting ready to duck in case he had to avoid a punch.

"It's alright," he muttered, "you're safe; you're in Baker Street, not there." He repeated that over again like a mantra until Sherlock finally, gradually calmed down. As the dreams receded, he sank back into the bed, visibly relaxing but not waking up. John sighed heavily and stood back up, meandering through the living room towards the stairs to his bed. Unbelievably, as he passed by the couch, his phone began to ring. He didn't even have to look at the caller I.D.

"Hello, John."

"You shouldn't put cameras in your brother's room. I thought you'd learn that after he found the last five."

"That is beside the current point," Mycroft responded smoothly. "I know you care about my brother," he continued, the disdain for the concept clear in his voice. "And I know you're worried for him. And while I have the external situation under control-"

"Oh really?" John interrupted him. "See, the funny thing about that is you said you could keep Robert away, and that's failed about twice now."

"And while I have the external situation under control," Mycroft continued testily, ignoring John's disruption, "I rather think that you might be the one who should deal with my brother's, ah, emotional state."

"I would if I had any bloody idea how to do that," John responded, sounded just about as irritated as Mycroft. "I can't tell what he's feeling on the best of days, and right now's far from it."

"Sherlock may refuse to acknowledge it, but he needs to speak to somebody about what happened to him."

"You mean he hasn't?" John sounded incredulous.

"No," Mycroft answered. "He refused to tell anything to another person, not even the police when they were gathering evidence. And of course he certainly wouldn't talk about it to me." John noticed that Mycroft sounded somewhat bitter.

"Why not?" he chanced to ask. Surprisingly he got a response.

"Because he blames me; and not wrongly so. I spent nine years training myself to tell the smallest details about strangers but missing the fact that my own little brother was being abused by my father. He'd sooner open up to a total stranger than say anything about it to me. And he trusts you far more than that. If anyone has a chance of getting him to speak about it it's you, John." John sighed.

"I'll see what I can do in the morning; for now I'm going back to bed." Mycroft took the hint.

"Goodnight, John; oh, and by the way, the camera's not in _his_ room."

"… Dick." John hung up the phone and gave a cursory glance around his room. "Oh, bloody hell, I'll find it in the morning," he muttered. And then he went solidly back to sleep.

He didn't stir until about ten, wandering downstairs to find that Sherlock was still asleep and that Mrs. Hudson had left a note saying that she would be out most of the day shopping, so they were going to have to make their own lunch for once because she was not their housekeeper. John stretched and made himself some tea, and an hour later Sherlock tumbled in. Despite his usually collected movements, he was not at his most graceful in the mornings and had a habit of accidentally bouncing off of chairs that amused John to no end. He ricocheted off the kitchen table and dropped into the seat; John slid a coffee across to him.

"Your brother's hidden another camera here," he commented.

"Where is it this time?" Sherlock asked, swallowing half the cup in one gulp.

"My room; he's getting creative."

"He's getting desperate. I'll find it for you later." They lapsed into companionable silence while Sherlock finished his coffee and John read the paper and contemplated how to bring up the thorny subject of Sherlock's past with him.

"How did you sleep?" he finally ventured to ask. The taller man shrugged.

"Well enough, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"You had another nightmare." John had found that so long as he didn't wake Sherlock up during, the only way the detective knew he'd had a nightmare was when John told him the next day. Sherlock scowled heavily.

"I wish they'd stop," he muttered.

"They're always about your father." John continued to edge closer to the subject, bit by bit. "Mycroft called me last night after you'd settled down; he said you've never spoken to anyone about what happened." Sherlock glared at him suspiciously.

"Why should I?" he shot back. "It's not as if it'll have stopped it from happening."

"I know," John replied. "But it might get rid of the nightmares if you actually told someone about it. It certainly couldn't hurt."

"If I told you about it, you mean?" Sherlock responded sharply.

"Yes," John replied simply. "Believe it or not, you're my friend and I'm just a _little bit_ tired of watching you get pulled apart every night for a week by your own memory." Sherlock pushed away from the table abruptly.

"I've never told anyone and I've been fine so far. I don't _need_ your help, John."

"Sure you don't," John shot back somewhat sarcastically. "You've been absolutely fine, which is why I've had to wake up to you yelling at the top of your lungs every night!" He knew he was starting to lose his temper, but he sensed that the logical approach wouldn't do much good at this point so he just went with it.

"I don't _make_ you do that," Sherlock responded icily. "I didn't make any of this happen!"

"I know you didn't," John answered quietly. "None of it was your fault, _believe me_ I know that. But it did happen, and it's never going to go away. You've had this caught up inside you for too long. It's not going to do you any good to keep holding it in."

"How would you know?" Sherlock glared at him. He clenched his jaw and turned away from the doctor, facing out toward the cluttered, chaotic sitting room.

"Did you forget that I got shot?" It was a rhetorical question. John continued to talk to Sherlock's back; forcing his way in front of him would only make it worse. "I came a minute away from dying, and after I was discharged I had nothing. None of my family lives here except Harry, and you of all people should know that I barely talk to her; I certainly didn't back then. Three months before that I was a medic in the Royal Army and then I turned into a jobless cripple with no one to turn to. My life as I knew it was over, and I refused to speak to anyone about it. I kept to myself and brooded and things only got worse. But then I finally opened up to someone, and it worked. Trust me, you're not doing yourself any favors by locking everything away."

Sherlock didn't respond, didn't even move, until finally John sighed to himself and gave up. Maybe it would work some later time. He sat in silence, staring at the detective's unmoving back and trying to think of another way to sway the ever-obstinate Sherlock.

"Who was it?" The question startled John out of his reverie five minutes later.

"Who was what?"

"That you spoke to; who was it?" John gave a small smile and a slight laugh.

"You." That certainly caught the taller man off guard. His shoulders jerked backwards. He glanced at John before turning back to the other direction but it was enough for him to see the startled look on Sherlock's face. He maintained radio silence for another five minutes, but he was distinctly restless rather than deadly still as he had been. Finally, later, he sighed quietly. His gaze wandered off into the distance and he said the five words that John had been hoping to hear all morning.

"Alright, I'll tell you."


	25. Chapter 25A

**A/N: So, um, not quite as late as last time... Hopefully. :) This chapter came out way, way longer than I had intended it to so I split it up into two parts; this is part A, and I'll post part B as soon as I'm done with it. This whole section really kicked my ass. I've never even approached trying to tell a story like this before so I wanted to treat it with the due respect and it really out me through the wringer, but I've finally gotten it where I want it, and not tacky or crude or anything like that (I hope). It shouldn't be too much longer on the second half. It's the flashback, and the continuation of this part's ending, and it gets really, really, phenomenally dark... It wasn't an easy thing for me to write, even harder than it was to write this. On a more cheerful note, I would like to proudly announce that I have 100 reviews on this story now and you people are so awesome I can't even put it into words. 8D And, of course, I would absolutely love to add to that total. Hint hint. Part B should be up tomorrow or the day after and then we can move toward a resolution. With sufficient kicking of the right ass, of course... ^-^**

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><p>John, wisely, did not say anything, sitting back and letting Sherlock get to that on his own time. The detective, despite finally seeming to cave in, still took his time but the doctor waited patiently, knowing full well that this was his only chance to hear the story and Sherlock's only chance to get it out. Still, after a few minutes he began to wonder if Sherlock had gone back on his word. The detective wandered into the sitting room and John followed him; they took seats facing each other and John tried his best to look calm, although on the inside he was getting nervous just thinking about the upcoming conversation.<p>

Finally Sherlock sighed quietly and broke the tense silence. "It all started when I was seven," he said. John still made no noise or motion, waiting for him to continue. "I was in the kitchen and dropped a glass on the floor so he slammed me up against the refrigerator. I figured it was a one-time thing, but it wasn't. He actually started hitting me a couple of days after that." Sherlock gazed past John out of the window, his voice functioning on automatic, devoid of emotion.

"It didn't take Beck too long to figure out what was going on; she was a better observer than I gave her credit for, I guess. She told me to go to the police. I ignored her."

"Why?" John asked quietly.

"He threatened me, of course- convinced me that no one cared what I had to say and if I tried to tell anyone he'd 'make me regret it'." Sherlock's robotic voice took on a bitter tone as he echoed his father's words from that day. John was starting to feel a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with breathing. "So I kept my mouth shut, just like he ordered me to. For a while afterward it seemed like he was done with it. Almost nothing happened until I was eight." Sherlock stood abruptly and wheeled around, staring out the sitting room window.

"That was the first time he ever got drunk that I know of," he continued emotionlessly. "I'd just figured out that he was having an affair behind my mother's back and when he insulted her I got angry. I told him what I knew and that he was the one causing the problems and… he didn't take it well, you could say. I ended up with a pair of fractured ribs and everyone thought I'd fallen on the stairs."

"Everyone except Beck," John said. It wasn't a question.

"She was there when it happened. I'd been home alone until she came over. We were talking about what to do when he came in and she hid under the bed. After he'd finished she drugged his water so he'd fall asleep and then stayed at my house to take care of me. It only got worse after that. My mother eventually figured out that her husband was sleeping with another woman and they got a divorce, but my mother left instead of my father; Mycroft had already headed off to university by then."

"I was on my own with him after that. After a while I'd gotten so used to him hitting me that I hardly even cared anymore, so when I was twelve he decided to stop giving me food if he thought I'd done something wrong." John kept silent (mostly because he really didn't trust anything that would come out of his mouth at this point) but he realized with a jolt that he had probably just heard the explanation for how Sherlock could go for days without eating on a case; he'd already had plenty of practice.

"I tried to run away once," Sherlock continued. The total lack of emotion in his voice somehow made his story that much more infuriating- it was like the narrator of a movie, not the voice of a man who'd lived through it. "I stayed at Beck's house overnight; I walked there on my own at three in the morning. I hadn't eaten for two days and I was just sick and tired of my father. But I had to go back after school the next day." Sherlock fell silent for a moment and John used that time to settle himself down a little- every muscle in his body was tensed not to get his gun and go after Robert himself. It didn't work too well.

"That was when he started to lock me in the basement. Usually it was only for a night or so, but sometimes it was over a day. And all the time I was out of the house, at school or with Beck, I still didn't say a single thing to anyone about what was going on. I was afraid of my father, and by then I was convinced that no one would listen to me even if I tried to tell them what he was doing to me."

"When I was thirteen Mycroft figured out something was wrong; he was visiting and I'd spilled water on my shirt and pulled it off to change. I forgot I was still bruised. He didn't realize who'd done it, though- I tried to stop him but he insisted on asking my father if he knew what had happened." Sherlock gave a short, harsh laugh. "He didn't realize that the answer to that question was sitting in the room with him. Suffice it to say that once he'd gone I felt the effects. A few new bruises and a day and a half in the basement, along with a nice cut on my arm. My father was gone by the time I realized it was still bleeding, so I walked over to Beck's house. Her father Richard gave me a ride to the hospital."

"He was the next to realize that something was wrong, and after that it didn't take him too long to figure out what was going on, even though I still wouldn't admit to it. He tried to convince me to tell the police but I wouldn't."

"Didn't he go to them, though?" John remembered somebody saying that once. Sherlock nodded robotically.

"He did, several times; they started out thinking he was overreacting and ended up thinking he was unhinged by the time he was done. He must have gone in there a dozen times to try and tell them the truth but they wouldn't listen."

_And here I wondered why you had such a problem with the police, _John thought to himself. All the pieces, all the things he'd wondered about ever since he met the detective, they were all coming together now. Every last one of them. And it made him want to track down Robert even more. He jolted out of his reverie when Sherlock spoke again.

"I never did figure out who told my father Richard had tried to report him- no one has ever been able to figure out who it was, not even Mycroft; but somebody did. That was the angriest I'd ever seen him get, when he got home that day. He dragged me outside and locked me in the shed overnight. I managed to break out before he came to get me and I wandered into the woods behind our house." He turned abruptly and faced John. "I decided I was going to throw myself in the river. Beck realized something was wrong when I didn't show up for school and came looking for me. She followed my footprints into the woods and swore that she'd jump in the river after me and drag me back out if I went through with it."

John remained motionless, both because he knew it was what the detective needed, and because his chest was so tight he could barely breath. "After that I lived with Beck and her family at their house- until their restationing notice came." Sherlock skipped back in time with a jolt, as though he still wasn't ready to talk about what had happened after that day even now. He spoke for hours, letting things out of his system that no one but Beck had ever known before that day while John continued to sit motionlessly, supporting his friend the best way he could. Even with his utterly detached voice, John knew him well enough to detect the pain lurking underneath, just below the surface, waiting to strike.

Finally Sherlock stopped talking, his story all but done- except for one thing. John didn't want to ask- more than anything he wanted to go take an hour or six to calm himself down- but he knew he had to. He had to know what had happened right up until the end. "What finally convinced you to send your father to prison? What happened after you knew Beck and her family were going back to Texas?" Sherlock wanted nothing more than to ignore him, but he knew he couldn't. He had to finish the story, no matter how hard it got to tell.

So he gathered his courage, faced his friend, and told him the worst part of all.


	26. Chapter 25B

**A/N: I'm just going to preemptively say that if you don't want to read this you don't have to. It's the climax of the flashback story, so it's fairly important, but it's also very, very violent and contains a fair bit of bad language as well. That said, it was damn hard to write so if you do read it I'd really appreciate a review. Blatant little plug there... **_  
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**MAJOR WARNING: As I said, this contains some, ah, creative language and serious violence directed at teenagers, so avoid this if either of those things will trigger you.  
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><p><em>Richard looked over the note again. And then he did it again. And then he did it one last time, willing himself to just have read it wrong or had some strange kind of dream. No, not a dream; a nightmare. He couldn't pretend he hadn't known it was coming, but he had hoped to put it off as long as possible. He was being restationed. In one month, they were going back to Texas. <em>

_Let no one say that Richard Taylor was not an opinionated man- when he made a decision, he stuck to it come hell or high water, and he was good at making decisions. But right now he just didn't know what to do, and that was not a comfortable position to be in. He leaned back against the car, calming himself down, and then entered the house. Beck's little brother was still at school, his wife was working on something in the kitchen, and Sherlock and Beck were sitting on the living room floor with a knife, a board, and a pair of very determined looks. _

_"O-kay, whatever you're doing there, stop it now or go on the back porch." As he had expected, they scurried for the back porch. "Just a second-" they stopped and looked at him. "Sherlock, I need to speak to you. Let's go outside." They made their way out to the front yard with Beck looking behind them worriedly. _

_Sherlock had already seen the envelope in Richard's hand; all he needed now was the final confirmation. Wordlessly, Richard gave him the letter to read for himself. The boy had become good at disguising his emotions- too good for Richard's taste, truth be told- but the worry was visible on his face as he handed the letter back. _

_"I wish you didn't have to leave," he finally confessed._

_"I wish I didn't have to either, but it's what I signed up for when I joined the military and I don't have a choice," he replied quietly._

_"Where am I going to go? I don't want to go back to my house."_

_"Don't you have a brother wanderin' around somewhere in the city? You could go live with him." Sherlock's laugh was a combination of bitter and disdainful._

_"He's probably far too busy trying to run the country to care about me," he responded coldly. "Mycroft has always had very high aspirations." _

_"It's worth a shot to at least try," Richard told him. "He's your brother, Sherlock, and I guarantee you he cares about you; just like Beck does." Sherlock was confused at the comparison._

_"But… Beck's not my sister, though."_

_"Not technically, but you two haven't seen a day without each other for nine years. Just because there's no genetics doesn't mean she ain't your family. Just because there's no genetics doesn't mean I can't count you as my son, either." Now Sherlock was extremely confused._

_"You think I'm your son?" Richard shrugged._

_"Why not? I've done more raisin' of you than anyone else has; not to add on the fact that you've been living in my house for about a year now. I'd like to think I outstrip your bastard of a father by a fair piece." He was right, of course- he was more of a father to Sherlock than Robert had ever been and, to put it lightly, a far, far better role model. But, despite all that, he had no legal say in what would happen to Sherlock after he was restationed. He couldn't exactly take someone else's kid and skip the country, even if it would have been better than the alternative. _

_"I have to go back, don't I? Back to my house." Sherlock finally said what they were both thinking. There was nothing else they could do- except for one possible option._

_"Go to the cops; you have to. That's only way to get rid of him for good." Sherlock's face darkened and he scowled off into the distance. _

_"It wouldn't work; you've been trying to go to them for years and they've been ignoring you. Why should they listen to me?"_

_"Why should they not?" He and Richard had had this conversation before, but this time the older man was determined to come out on top. _

_"Because the one who has the money makes the rules- and my father's got the money. He's too 'important to the community' to dare messing with." Richard sighed, knowing that he had a long debate ahead of him. He glanced slightly over his shoulder._

_"How long have you been standing back there, Rebecca?" _

_"Since y'all started talking," she answered quietly, walking around the car to join them. _

_"Then you've heard the lot?" She nodded slightly. She rubbed her face tiredly and turned to Sherlock._

_"I agree with dad- you need to go to the cops. If you don't I will and if they don't listen to me then I'll send mom in to tell 'em they're wrong. And if that doesn't work than I'll tell every single person I come across in the town just to get the word around. You need to stop letting him control your life; you've been doing that for too long. Time for you to take back what's your own." The tone of her voice left nobody in doubt that she would carry out every single word of her declaration no matter what. _

_"What if they don't believe me?" Sherlock said quietly. _

_"Then we'll sleep in the gat-dang office 'til they do," Beck replied. "You're going someplace _safe_ once we leave." Sherlock sighed, defenses finally down._

_"Okay, I'll try and get them to believe me." Those were the words Beck and her father had been hoping to hear for years now. She smiled gently at him, relieved._

_"I'll drive you down there tomorrow," her father intoned. "It'd be best if I didn't join you; most of those fellows know me by now." His reason needed no elaboration. He wasn't to know it (although he did, of course) but his nickname down at the police station was 'the crazy Texan'. He was quite proud of the moniker. "I have to be at the flight line at noon, so you'll have to walk back unless your mother can pick you up."_

_"I'll walk; need to blow off some steam anyhow," Beck replied. Sherlock nodded his agreement; hopefully he would be at the police station and Beck would walk back on her own, but right about now none of them were trusting in hope too much. There was really nothing more to discuss- at least nothing they were willing to discuss at the moment. They knew there was a long day ahead of them. But none of them could have known just how long and terrible that day was going to be. _

_No one in the house, with the possible exception of Beck's younger brother (who was too little to understand what was going on), slept very well that night. The morning was just as tense. Richard kissed his wife and son goodbye and then loaded the older kids into the car. They reached the local police station just after eleven thirty. Sherlock and Beck got out and Richard followed, suddenly grasping them both in a tight one-armed hug._

_"Be careful," he muttered into their ears. "Be safe." He released them. "I'm gonna call the house at two; try and be back by then, but if you're not I'll call the cop shop just to be sure. I love you both." He turned on his heel and took his place at the driver's seat, pulling off and heading in the direction of the Air Force Base. Sherlock and Beck turned to face each other._

_"This is it, then," Beck remarked. She reached over and took Sherlock's hand in her own. Together the two sixteen-year-olds pushed open the door and entered the station._

_The conversation was a disaster; Beck had been praying that Sherlock would be wrong and that the police would listen, but as usual he was correct. The moment she opened her mouth the officer they were speaking to recognized her._

_"You're the crazy Texan's daughter, aren't you?" She scowled ferociously at him._

_"No, I am the crazy Texan's _crazy Texan_ daughter. Get your facts straight. That has nothing to do with why I'm here; you've been ignoring dad, you can ignore me all you want, but you can't ignore him." She gestured at Sherlock, who was gazing off into the distance, lost in his thoughts. The officer remained skeptical._

_"If this has been going on for so long, why didn't he come to us sooner?" Beck gaped at him._

_"Are you fucking kidding me? We come in here and _that_ load's your first question?" She was going to continue, but Sherlock snapped up out of his reverie._

_"Believe it or not, when someone threatens to murder you, it tends to put you off the idea of disobeying them," he responded sharply. Between the officer's attitude and their belligerence, the conversation stalled to a halt and they were told to leave. Beck was fuming._

_"Damn it," she shouted as soon as there was an empty street. Sherlock was paler than normal and he turned to face her. _

_"You know what this means; I've got no choice now. I have to go back."_

_"Like hell you do!" she retorted, but inside she knew he was right. Their last possibility had been exhausted. She sighed deeply and shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "Let's just head back to the house; we'll figure out something." Unfortunately, the figuring had already been done for them. They were just outside of town and completely alone when Sherlock's spine tingled. Some gut feeling was telling him to be on high guard, and soon he knew why. There was a car approaching them- his father's car. _

_"Beck," he warned her in a low voice. She barely glanced over her shoulder._

_"Shit," she muttered quietly. "Has he seen us?"_

_"I doubt he hasn't," Sherlock responded. "He's going to take us, you know." _

_"Yeah, I know; and there ain't a path to get away from him, is there?" It was a rhetorical question. They both knew what was coming. In that moment, Beck made a decision. "If I'm gonna lose a fight, I'm gonna lose it facing my enemy." She stopped where she was in the road and made a one-eighty turn to face the approaching car. Sherlock turned with her, back ramrod straight; he was done being afraid. Like Beck had told him, it was time to take back his own life, and he was starting now, regardless of what came next. Beck reached out surreptitiously and threaded her fingers through Sherlock's as the car came to a stop. _

_"Well, it looks like I've gotten two for one, haven't I?" his father said. Beck snarled upon hearing Robert's voice._

_"Well, ain't it your lucky day, you bastard," she growled back. _

_"Get in the car," he replied coldly, not bothering with a retort. They had no choice but to obey him. Beck snuck a glance at her watch as she got into the car- it wasn't even noon yet. No one would notice their disappearance for over two hours at the earliest. Both teens kept their hands connected all the way back to Robert's house. They were gestured to get out of the car and he trailed them into the house, leaving them no opportunity to escape or call for help. Hands still linked, they were shepherded into the sitting room and placed in the middle. Neither of them was inclined to break the silence so finally their captor took it upon himself. _

_"You two have caused me a lot of trouble, you know that?"_

_"Oh, please do let me apologize," Beck responded with an almost painful level of sarcasm. "Why have you taken us, you son of a bitch?" He swept over to her and grabbed her by the collar, lifting her a couple of inches off the seat._

_"If you know what's good for you, you won't speak to me that way anymore," he growled, but Beck was unimpressed. _

_"I'll speak to you however the hell I want." Suddenly, without warning, he swung back around to face her and backhanded her. She'd known it was coming the moment she opened her mouth, so she was able to control her reaction enough not to cry out or flinch. Still, the force of the blow made her lurch sideways. Sherlock looked furious, enough that he began to stand, but Beck placed a restraining hand on his chest._

_"Don't," she told him quietly. "It's me he wants anyway, not you." She turned to face Robert. "I know you came there to get me; let him go. Please." It was a futile request but she had to try._

_"Do you really think I would be so stupid that I would just let that boy walk out of here?" Robert scoffed. "I'll get to him later; I'm going to deal with you now."_

_"What's your plan?" she asked abruptly. "Were you just figuring you could beat the shit out of a couple kids and then mosey on your merry way? I'm starting to wonder if you thought this through." She was rewarded for that comment by another sharp hit. She ignored the pain and tried to reason with him._

_"People are gonna notice we're gone eventually; they'll know it was you. Unless of course you were planning to skip town; so if that's the case, then I'll tell you what, I'll cut you a deal." Robert arched his eyebrows and turned to face her. Her heart was racing as she continued. "Don't do anything to Sherlock and I'll go with you."_

_"No!" Sherlock yelled. "I'm not going to let that happen!" Robert slapped him._

_"Shut up, boy," he snarled. "And how should I think that he won't just go straight to the police when we've left?"_

_"The police are gonna be on their way in under two hours no matter what," she responded. "And I know you ain't gonna let us both out of here unharmed. I'm the one that's been throwing the monkey wrench in all your plans for the last nine years anyways. Leave Sherlock alone and I won't fight you." Beck was holding onto Sherlock's hand so tightly her fingers where going to leave a mark by the time she let go. _

_"No deal," Robert responded. "Both of you have been far too much trouble for far too long a time." He reached down and seized his son by the shirtfront, pulling him over to the closet in the corner. He forced the boy into it and locked it from the outside. Beck could hear him pounding on the door, trying to get out, but Robert's next words were ringing in her ears. "I'm going to get my revenge before I go. And I'm starting with you." _

_Her insides were roiling, but Beck rose to meet him. Face your enemy standing tall and straight-backed, her father had always told her, 'cause that's the way we do it in the South; and so she did, refusing to let even a trace of fear flicker through her eyes._

_She fought back against every blow, but he was bigger and stronger and had more experience than she did. The first one that slipped through her defenses was a kick to the back of the knee. She winced and lost her balance as it buckled under her from the impact and after that she was fighting a losing battle. Slowly but surely more and more blows made their way through. Finally she realized that she was doing herself more harm than good trying to defend herself from him. _

_Her defense was finally destroyed for good when she struck up against the wall, snapping her head backwards and disorientating her. Robert grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down against the hard, wooden floor; she yelled with pain as her head struck against it but she forced herself into a standing position. She was not going to go down without one hell of a struggle. There was blood coming from her nose; she could feel it running down her face and she spat some out onto the floor from where it had run into her mouth. _

_"You don't know when to quit, do you?" Robert sneered. She shrugged. _

_"Stupidity will take you far in life, but of course you already know that don't you?" He roared and backhanded her, sending her crashing into the coffee table and gasping for breath. He pulled her up by the shirtfront and yanked her over to the closet. He twisted the lock and opened the door, pulling Sherlock out with one hand and forcing Beck in with the other. _

_"Run, Sherlock!" she screamed the moment Robert's hand had let go of him. He bolted, heading for the front door, but Robert had locked it behind him after he entered. By the time Sherlock had gotten it unlocked, Robert had already forced Beck into the closet and caught up with him._

_"Oh, no, you don't," he growled. Sherlock struck first, punching his father clean in the face and pulling away from him. He darted back to the closet, trying to let Beck out before his father caught up to him; he'd gotten the key halfway turned in the lock before he was forced to run again. He dodged around Robert and took the stairs two at a time. He attempted to lock himself in the bathroom but was unsuccessful- Robert forced open the door and pulled him out onto the landing._

_"I'll finish off your friend and then take care of you," he snarled. Sherlock pulled away as hard as he could; father and son jerked backwards toward the stairs. Sherlock pulled again and they both stumbled backwards off the top step. Robert managed to catch himself on the banister but Sherlock wasn't so lucky, curling himself into a ball as he tumbled to the bottom. He was conscious when he landed, but it didn't last long- he sprawled limply at the bottom and slipped into blackness…_

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><p><em>Beck wasn't a screamer; she never had been. But she was screaming in the closet, pounding against the rough wooden door until her hands were raw. She heard Sherlock yell as he toppled to the bottom of the stairs, and she pounded even harder. She knew he'd gotten the key almost out before he'd had to run again; she kicked at the lock, trying to dislodge it. Hell, she would've settled for breaking it all the way off the door if that was what it took to get out. <em>

_She could hear the key rattling as it slipped closer and closer to falling out. She turned herself sideways, using her left shoulder as a battering ram to force it open. Something finally cracked in the door, but simultaneously she felt like something cracked in her shoulder as well. She toppled forward as the closet door flew open, catching herself on her good hand. _

_For some reason when she landed she automatically glanced at her watch; they'd been there for nearly a half an hour. For the first time since they'd gotten there, she was discouraged. It was almost an hour and a half before her dad would realize the kids were missing. She had to face up to the possibility that she and Sherlock could very well be dead by that time. The thought of not only her but Sherlock dying at sixteen was hard to process, if not impossible. _

_She was exhausted. There was no other way to describe it. She couldn't go on any longer, but she knew she had to. She had to keep fighting right down to the very end, unless they got some sort of miracle within that time. And a miracle seemed to be a long way off…_

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><p><em>You wouldn't think that anyone could find the undercarriage of a C-130 to be a boring thing, but Richard Taylor had been working on them for a long time, to say the least; you could have blindfolded him and duct taped his hands together and he could still find and repair the problem in twenty minutes or less. So yes, he did find the undercarriage of a C-130 to be a boring thing, but there was more to it than that. He was worried, deeply worried, and he could hardly wait for two o' clock to come. Finally, once he'd repaired the issue (in less than twenty minutes) he stood up, wiped the grease off his hands, and went over to the phone. He couldn't wait any longer. <em>

_The first place he dialed was his home, but a quick check with his wife confirmed that they hadn't arrived back yet. Next he rang the police station. "Hi, my name's Richard Taylor; my daughter's there trying to make a statement. I'd like to speak to her please."_

_"Just a moment sir, I'll check with the Inspector," answered the secretary on the other end of the line. She returned a few moments later. "The Inspector's told me they left."_

_"When?" Richard was starting to get concerned, a bad feeling kicking up in his gut._

_"Almost half an hour ago," she responded. "Apparently she and her friend were very upset." Richard slammed the phone down without answering or saying good-bye. Now he was really concerned. It was no more than a fifteen or twenty minute walk back to the house from the police station. They should have been there already- but they weren't. And that was a very bad thing. _

_He knew where they'd gone, or rather, where they'd been taken. There was only one place it could possibly have been. He was going to find them; and then he was going to kick that bastard's ass like he should have years ago._

_"Randy!" he hollered across the hangar. "I've gotta go off base; emergency. Cover for me."_

_"What's wrong, boss?" the man called back._

_"No time to explain. My children are in danger." He was already running, so focused he didn't even realize he'd said 'children' instead of 'child'. He shot through the door and pounded to his car, barely taking time to throw on his seat belt before driving away. It was no more than a ten minute drive to Sherlock's house, but he almost managed to cut a quarter off of it. He barely paused to turn his car off before he shot toward the house; the front door was hanging an inch or two open and he shoved through it._

_His first sight was of Sherlock, still lying unconscious at the base of the stairs. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" he said quietly. Apart from a nasty cut (and probable concussion) to the back of the head, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He stood up straight, rage coursing through him. _

_"Robert, you bastard! Where are you? Come on out and fight me like a man, why don't you, coward?" he roared as loudly as he could. The house was still and silent- and that only made him feel worse about the situation than he did already. "So that's it, then?" he shouted to the empty hallway. "You're just gonna beat up your child and then hide from somebody your own damn size?" _

_Suddenly there was a muffled thump from the hallway leading off to the right, and then the sound of a girl- his heart nearly stopped when he realized it was his daughter- screaming "We're in here, dad!" He ran toward the sound of her voice, pulling out his ever-present knife and flipping it open, and was met with a sight that nearly killed him right there. _

_"Let her go," he growled. "Let her go or I'll finish you off in your own damn house." Robert was standing against the back wall at the end of the hallway, Beck in front of him- and he had a knife to her throat. _

_"Now, I wonder if you really have the guts to go through with that," Robert taunted him._

_"What, you mean like you have the guts to beat my child and throw your son down the stairs? Is that what you call guts?" Richard snarled back. "'Cause if that's what you think than I'm in short supply- but I am absolutely willing to kill you if you try to kill my child."_

_"Oh, but I don't think he knows just how stupid that would be, dad," Beck told her father lightly, joining the conversation. Then, she addressed Robert. "You do realize that if you kill either me or Sherlock, somebody somewhere on the Air Force Base is gonna make sure you end up at room temperature before you got a chance to get to trial." The statement was nothing but a cover; she had a plan- and a knife- of her own, and now she was going to put it into action. Before either man could react, she flipped open her pocket knife and held it up against Robert's wrist, moving lightning-fast._

_"You try and kill me now and you'll try and kill yourself too, asshole. Got you in a pickle, haven't I?" Her voice was both gloating and deadly serious. At the other end of the hall, her father gave a grim smile._

_"Sucks when you try to kill somebody and they fight back, doesn't it?" he asked sarcastically, still coursing with fury. "Now how about you put your knife down and lose _honestly_?" He'd finally goaded Robert into taking him up on that offer. With an incoherent yell, he shoved Beck sideways, leaving a small but painless cut near her collarbone, dropped his knife, and charged the Texan. _

_The two men collided like a pile of bricks; Robert was a very experienced fighter, and slightly larger than Richard, but Richard was fighting off of pure anger, and besides, you didn't get through Basic without picking up some things that stuck with you. It almost wasn't even a contest; Robert landed one hit to the side of Richard's head (leaving him with a shallow but bleeding cut) and then Richard landed a punch solidly on Robert's nose, followed by a quick head butt, and then scythed his feet out from under him, sending the other man crashing to the ground. Robert groaned as the air swept out of him like a punctured balloon, but Richard wasn't finished._

_He pulled Robert up bodily by the front of his shirt and gave the other man the strongest shove he could put out, sending him reeling backwards and colliding hard with the wall, where he finally went down for the count. Richard bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Beck had finally picked herself up and stumbled to the end of the hallway. Sherlock was finally, slowly, beginning to stir from his fall down the stairs, groaning slightly. _

_Richard stood up straight and pulled his daughter into a hug, resting his chin on the top of her head and rubbing her back. "It's okay," he murmured as she started crying into his chest. He heard sirens wailing their way up to the house. "About damn time," he muttered to himself. Beck pulled away from him and ran over to Sherlock. _

_"Sherlock, wake up. Please wake up," she whispered to him as he shifted slightly. The paramedics hurried in, closely followed by the police, and they carefully rolled Sherlock over and lifted him onto a stretcher. Beck felt strangely numb as she watched them leave and she jerked wildly as one of the paramedics rested a hand on her arm. _

_"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you," the man assured her quickly, lifting his hands in the air. "I need to take you to the hospital, that's all. Can you get onto a stretcher for me?" Reluctantly, slowly, she complied and was wheeled out to the ambulance._

_"Where's my dad?" she asked quietly, looking around for Richard. _

_"I'm right here," he answered, hopping up into the ambulance beside her and taking her hand. The paramedic shut the doors and they were off, close behind Sherlock's ambulance, heading to the hospital. Beck began to relax infinitesimally as they drew closer._

_The fight was over; it was really over. She repeated that thought in her head on a loop until she finally succumbed to the sedative one of the paramedics had administered and fell into sleep._


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N: HOLY TOLEDOS I CAN'T EVEN APOLOGIZE ENOUGH. I am so so so so so sorry it took me this long to update and I beg your desperate forgiveness. I was having a ridiculous amount of trouble with this chapter and to be perfectly honest I'm still not entirely pleased with it. It's mondo-short and stuck in a bit of an awkward spot, plot-wise so I decided to just resolve it so I can get to the next bit. Anyways, I swear this will not happen again and I am so damn sorry and (as I have always said) reviews are very much welcomed and will be responded to. Hint hint. **

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><p>None of them realized it until later, but that story was told to two different people at the same time. After her close encounter with Robert, Beck had been far more shaken up than she had let on, until finally she went out and got a little more alcohol into her system then she strictly should have. Fortunately Lestrade had seen her go into the pub and decided it would be wise to keep an eye on her, so when she left an hour or three later he intercepted her at the door.<p>

"You're not going back to the site like this," he told her sternly. She mulled it over in her head for a second and then replied,

"Yep… you're probably right. I do not know where I am going to go."

"Well you're in luck then, because I know just the place," Lestrade responded. From the way he'd answered it was obvious that this was not his first round with somebody who'd partaken of too much drink.

"Oh really? And where would that be?"

"It's called 'my couch', and you're staying there until you've slept the booze off. Come on, over to the car with you." He finally managed to guide her to both the appropriate car and the appropriate door and drove the pair of them back to his house. She'd barely hit the couch before she was asleep; he sat quietly in the living room with her and read a book, glancing at her still form occasionally.

He sighed imperceptibly and went to bed himself, taking one last moment to look at the woman lying on the couch. He knew the basics of the case she and Sherlock had been involved in, but he'd done his best to avoid reading the specifics. He knew he had to hear them, though; he had no choice. He needed the full story and Beck was one of only three people who knew it. He could have it tomorrow morning, though- for now, he was going to let her sleep.

The following morning, Beck woke up, swallowed several cups of coffee in one go, and thanked him for the use of his couch. "It's no problem," he responded with a wry grin. "It's certainly not like I've ever been in that situation before…"

"Oh, Good Lord, no," she responded jokingly. "Can't imagine." Lestrade began to reconsider what he was about to ask of her; he didn't want to spoil the mood and drag up things that had settled over a decade ago. But, as he had reminded himself last night, he had to. He sighed.

"I need to ask you about something." She gave him a look that was both cautious and questioning.

"Shoot," she responded. Lestrade had never heard that particular expression before, but he took it to mean 'go ahead'.

"What happened back then? How did you finally get Sherlock's father sent to prison?" It was her turn to sigh.

"You've read the case file, haven't you?" She was trying to evade the question. "It's all in there."

"I know it's all in there, but I need to hear it from you," Lestrade answered gently. "It's just as important for you to get it out of your system as it is for Sherlock. We all need to just clear the air once and for all." Beck sighed again, but it was more resigned than anything else. She nodded a couple of times and began to speak.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later Lestrade went outside for a breath of air; well, really, for a breath <em>period.<em> He was a father himself, and the idea of someone doing that to _children_… There were times he was glad he wasn't allowed to be armed on the job because some people just made themselves into walking targets, and this was one of those times. Beck was inside, claiming quite understandably that she needed some time alone, and Lestrade had gladly retreated to the outdoors.

He vaguely recalled the name of the original D.I who had handled the case from when he read it in the file. Harry Cartwright, that was it; he'd been promoted to Chief Inspector and then retired a few years ago, but Lestrade still knew him. He breathed in deeply and decided to pay Harry a visit.

"Hello, Greg," Harry greeted him cheerfully. "Long case, I heard."

"Oh yeah," he groaned. "We _still _haven't gotten a confession from this guy even though we found the damn murder weapon in his house." Soon after Russell's arrest, forensics had gone through his house, where a simple test for blood had revealed that he had grabbed a bookend from the shelf and hit Howard over the head with it. Despite that, and his son backing up his friend's story that Russell was abusive, he had still refused to confess to any of it, insisting that he wasn't talking until he got a solicitor in there.

"Well, people will be stubborn," Harry responded with a wry smile. "So what did you come to talk about? You could have vented to anybody."

"True; I actually wanted to ask you about an old case of yours- Robert Holmes." Harry's face darkened.

"I remember that one very clearly; never thought I'd have to hear of it again though."

"He's been released, just the other day."

"Bloody hell… Just goes to show that you can get away with anything, doesn't it? You know the story then?"

"I've read the file on it, but I wanted to hear it from somebody on the outside." Harry nodded and drew the door open.

"Come on in, then. I'll see what I can tell you." Lestrade followed him into the sitting room. "Sorry for the mess; the wife's out of town and I'm retired and lazy." He heaved himself into a chair and Lestrade sat opposite. "So," he started when he'd gotten settled, "I assume you want to know about the day he was arrested?" Lestrade nodded.

"I know Sherlock and his friend; it's been a rough week for them." Harry nodded.

"I would imagine; I remember getting called out there."

"Who called you?"

"It was one of the other airmen, actually- when the girl's father ran out and said his kids were in trouble the other man got worried; he called the wife and she said they'd gone to the police station. So he phoned there and learned that they'd left already and told the police what the father had said. Then _they_ finally figured out where the kids were. It was something of a complex process- it took a long time." Harry shook his head. "If you'll pardon my language, that case was a fuck-up from the beginning; about the only thing that got done right was the arrest."

"What was the crime scene like?"

"Difficult; just like any other case involving children is, really. There were four people involved and all four of them required medical treatment. The two adults were relatively uninjured, but the kids weren't so well off- the boy had a moderate concussion and a broken wrist, and the girl broke her collarbone and had a couple of fractured ribs." Lestrade grimaced.

"I'm surprised her father didn't kill him for that."

"He came damn close," Harry remarked. "The only reason he didn't was because his kid was still watching; told me so himself. Even if he had we still could have figured out what had happened. The forensic evidence was all over the place. We found the man's fingerprints on the outside of the wardrobe the kids were locked in, and we found their prints on the inside." Harry shook his head slowly, remembering the scene. "They were pressed right up against the inside, one set over the other; you could see where they'd pounded against it and tried to get out. We also found blood from all four of them on the floor and the girl's blood on his shirt. That and the fact that they both survived to testify made it a pretty open-and-shut case."

"Pity it wasn't before that," Lestrade remarked, and Harry nodded in agreement.

"Like I said, that case was a decade of screwing up, and even after all that he only got twelve years." Harry looked disgusted. "Twelve years in prison for trying to murder two children, one of them his own son. And that was with us throwing every charge we could at him- child abuse, neglect, two counts of attempted murder, kidnapping, and we even threw in assault with a deadly weapon for his fight with the girl's father. Not that it was much of a fight; it's almost amusing how badly he lost." For the first time Harry laughed at the memory.

"Damn near got his head put through the wall. When the girl's father told us about that most of the lads offered to buy him a round of drinks once they got off their shift. It didn't take us long to start hating Robert Holmes. The Americans weren't too fond of him either- especially not the other men the girl's father worked with. You know how it is in the military, they're very protective of each other." Lestrade could imagine the reaction and quite frankly the thought gave him a measure of satisfaction. He checked his watch- damn, he had to be back at the Yard in an hour. He stood up, thanking Harry for the information.

"I've got to go see if I can wrangle something out of our suspect." He shook his head. "I swear, the man thinks he can get away with anything like we haven't got evidence against him already." Harry shrugged.

"Some people are too stubborn for their own good; best of luck, Lestrade." He saw Lestrade to the door and called out behind him, "Oh, and when you next see Robert Holmes, could you do me a favor?" Lestrade turned to look back.

"What?"

"Well I would say put him at the bottom of the Thames, but that would be a little too quick."


	28. Chapter 27

**A/N: Lestrade gets a win, John briefly considers homicide, and I apologize once again because real life consumed all my spare time. I'm starting to get to the conclusion and I'm kind of struggling with it, so bear with me and I hope you enjoy the chapter. :) My plot bunnies ran away to Rise of the Guardians for a while, but this one's finally wandered back and I've superglued it to my head so it doesn't go anywhere. XD As per usual, reviews are more than welcome, and will be answered, and let me just say to everyone who's faved or followed or reviewed that you make me happy every day. ^-^**

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><p>"Come on now, Seth, you're not fooling anybody." Lestrade was trying to keep his temper in check, but it was a close-run thing. He stared down the defiant man across the table, who in turn stared at his crossed arms with a surly expression. "You've got nothing to cover yourself with. We have the murder weapon, in your house, with the victim's blood and your prints on it. We've got eyewitness testimony of you two getting into a fight before the murder and of you abusing at least one of your children. Not to mention the attempted assault of three people who were working with us to catch you."<p>

"Hey, I didn't start that fight!" Russell interrupted. "That dark-haired one came at me! He's the one that started it!"

"Yeah, and if I recall correctly he finished it too. Plus, it's his word against yours on who started it, and I don't think you're going to find any sympathetic ears around here, mate." A small portion of Lestrade's anger was bubbling up through his well-worn cop face. He breathed in deeply and forced it back beneath the surface; if he lost his touch now he could very well throw the whole interview down the toilet.

Still, it was a hard act to swallow. His instinct was to turn off the recorder and 'go to the bathroom' for a few minutes and see what Russell had to say then; give him a taste of his own medicine. But he knew he wouldn't, because someone had to have standards and it might as well be him. He flipped the file shut, turning and leaving the room before his anger got the better of him. Donovan didn't even have to ask before she silently took up his place.

He leaned against the wall of the canteen, drinking down some terrible coffee and turning the case over in his mind. They didn't really need a confession from Russell- between the forensic evidence and the witness testimony they had enough to nail the bastard with everything they could throw at him. But a confession would speed up the process and be immensely satisfying on a personal level. He hated cases that involved kids; it made him think of his own children. He loved them more than anything, and the idea of a man hurting his own kids made him furious to think about.

He sighed and shook his head, crumpling the cup. With a quick toss to the trash can, he left the canteen. He still had a suspect to crack. He sat silent until Russell finally caved into the looming silence.

"If I confess do I get time off my sentence?" Lestrade shrugged disinterestedly.

"I don't know, I don't care, and I'm not going to go out of my way to find out. I get paid whether or not you confess. You just get one more minute closer to jail on a murder charge." On impulse, he shook his head and asked, "Why did you do it? What the hell possessed you to abuse your children and kill a man?"

"What do you care?" Russell snarled. Lestrade gave himself a small, grim smile. He'd gotten the other man riled. That was a good head start, now he just had to keep pressing the right buttons and seal the deal.

"Just wondering; after all, it's not every day you meet someone the gang members despise. Prison's not a good place for people who hurt children." Russell's head shot up angrily.

"Oh, shut up, will you?"

"No, I will not," Lestrade responded. "So did you plan on beating Thomas Howard over the head or was that just an impulse?"

"He asked for it!" Russell yelled. If he hadn't been so close to boiling over with anger, Lestrade would have jumped up and done a victory dance. He'd finally found the right button. "He shouldn't have been interfering in my business."

"Why not?" Lestrade asked. "You were beating your kid- what did you expect him to do, ignore it?"

"He was going to destroy my life!"

"So you decided to end his? He's dead, you're going to jail, and you've already done enough of a number on your children. Thomas Howard didn't have to do one bloody thing to ruin your life, you'd already stamped the ticket yourself." Russell stood up so hard he knocked his chair over backwards and Lestrade matched him as a pair of Police Constables rushed in and handcuffed the other man.

They dragged the still-furious man from the room and put him in a cell while Lestrade, for the first time in weeks, felt like things were looking up. Donovan came into the room, eyebrows raised.

"Where on earth did you learn that, sir?"

"First DC I ever worked with told me that the angrier someone gets, the louder their mouth," he responded. He was sorely, sorely tempted to go outside for a smoke, but he didn't; his son couldn't stand the smell. "I'm going to go and write up my report." He rubbed the bridge of his nose and strode off. "I'm going to be so glad when this one's over," he muttered under his breath.

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><p>John stared out the window, chin resting on his hands as he processed the story he'd just heard. Sherlock, after finishing almost robotically, had vanished from the flat like he'd teleported himself out and left the doctor behind him to just think. Honestly, it didn't bother John; he didn't think he was quite back in control of himself enough to move, to be perfectly honest.<p>

He shook his head and sighed. The thought of someone doing that to _a child, two_ children made his stomach turn with a combination of disgust and anger that made him glad he and Sherlock had mutually agreed that Mrs. Hudson would hide the gun for them. It was no bloody wonder Sherlock never talked about his father.

John dragged himself into a standing position and sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. There was, unfortunately, nothing he could change about the past, but he could damn well change the future. He was lost in thought when his phone rang suddenly, coming more than a little close to sending him up through the roof. Catching his breath, he pulled out the phone.

"Hey Lestrade, you damn near gave me a heart attack," he laughed half-heartedly. "Uh, Sherlock's... out. I don't know where he's gone. Do you want me to call you when he's back?"

"No, actually; I was looking for you this time. Just thought I might brighten your day a little and let you know that Seth Russell confessed to all charges a few minutes ago. Apparently he and Thomas Howard got into an argument when Thomas told him he was going to turn him into the police. Russell says he thought Howard was trying to ruin his life so he grabbed the nearest thing and hit him over the head with it." John snorted.

"Ruin his life... So I guess it's fine with him to ruin his children's lives and his wife's life and Howard's family's life then, so long as he comes out on top." He could almost hear Lestrade shrug over the phone.

"Some people are just like that, John. They don't care who they step on to get to the top."

"Yeah, there's a word for people like that," John answered. "But I don't recall it being very polite. You want me to pass on the news to Sherlock when he gets back?"

"Could you? He's not been answering his phone."

"Well, we've just had a... I'm not really sure what to call it. About his past. He finally told me the truth, all of it. It's... well, I'll be honest, I really want to go and bloody shoot something."

"I know the feeling," Lestrade replied in such a tone of voice that John knew he was not kidding. "Beck told me the same thing this morning. Don't worry, John, we'll find a way to keep him out of town."

"I doubt Robert would pay attention to any of us," John replied. "I've seen Beck pull a knife on him before and he barely even blinked." Neither man had anything more to say, so they hung up. John went back over to the window, looking at the street unseeingly. He was wondering about a lot of things. He wondered what they could do to get rid of Robert; he wondered how Sherlock was going to deal with so much of his past being forced out all at once; and most of all, he wondered where his friend was, and what he was thinking about.

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><p><em>The first thing that registered through the haze was a beeping noise. God, he wished that beeping noise would go away. It made it damned difficult to sleep... He forced his eyes open, mind automatically assessing his surroundings. White walls, bed with rails, and an IV stuck in his arm- it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was in a hospital. But why? What had happened? He thought back through his memory.<em>

_He'd gone somewhere... to the police station, that was it. He was finally going to turn his father in like he should have years ago. But how did he go from there to a hospital bed? He knitted his eyebrows, thinking hard. What had happened? Then it all flashed back to him- the car driving up, his father's car, and the moment his fear finally drained away for good. Then the long drive back and the fight, when he'd tried so hard to keep Beck safe. Ad then the fall, and her yelling... Beck! Where was she?! He sat bolt upright, looking for anyone he could ask, when a nurse chanced to come in.  
><em>

_"Where's my friend?" he asked her, not wasting any time. "Is she going to be okay? I want to see her." The nurse, startled, didn't know quite how to respond, calling for the doctor. He hurried in, followed by Mycroft, whose face was a bit paler than normal. "Where's Beck?" he demanded, still not paying any attention to their efforts to get him to lie back down. _

_"Sherlock, you need to relax," the doctor began, but he was cut off by the teenager.  
><em>

_"I'm not going to relax until you tell me what happened to my friend!" Suddenly Richard appeared in the doorway, hurrying toward the boy and placing a hand on his chest gently.  
><em>

_"It's okay, she's gonna be fine," he told the boy. "Just lay back down. You need to rest." Sherlock finally calmed now that he knew what was going on. He didn't like being held in suspense, not even a little bit, especially not where someone he cared about was concerned. He let out a breath through his nose and laid back, allowing the doctor to check him over, albeit reluctantly. _

_Finally, after the doctor decided that everything was still in place, he and the nurse left. Richard dropped into a seat next to the bed with a sigh that was a mix of weariness and gladness.  
><em>

_"Welcome back to the land of living, my boy. You had us worried for a bit with that knock on your head." Sherlock glanced up instinctively, suddenly feeling the knock Richard was referring to. Mycroft moved forward and took the seat on the other side. For the first time in the older brother's life, he looked like he didn't know what to say. Sherlock deliberately avoided his gaze, not ready yet to have the conversation he knew was coming. He looked over to Richard.  
><em>

_"What happened to your head?" He'd just spotted the bandage taped to Richard's temple. The man shrugged._

_"Just took a whack of my own is all. I'm fine, even if that doc thinks otherwise." Richard rolled his eyes, and Sherlock tried not to snort when he also winced slightly. He looked down at his splinted wrist, moving it experimentally, but he'd just woken up from so much pain medicine that he could hardly tell it was moving at all. "You broke it," Richard answered for him. "You've also got a nice concussion, so no getting out of bed for you, not for a day or two leastways." A silent look passed between Richard and Mycroft, the older man nodding imperceptibly.  
><em>

_He stood up and stretched. "I'm gonna go see if the doc knows how Beck is and then get myself some terrible coffee." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "See you later. Try and get some more sleep; the more you get the less time you gotta spend in this bed." He gave the closest to a real smile he'd done for many hours and left. He shut the door behind him. Sherlock and his brother had some serious thing to talk about. The least he could do was give them a little privacy.  
><em>


	29. Chapter 28

**A/N: Alleluia, the Lord is risen! I'm so happy we get to say alleluias again at church. I missed 'em during Lent. Happy Easter to all, and guess what? This is the last chapter *triumphant fanfare*. I've made it all the way to the end of this novel-sized fanfic and I want to extend my awed and wondered thanks to everyone who made it there with me. Without you guys to keep me motivated I probably would still be working on, like, chapter three or something. But instead, I've gotten over 110 reviews and nearly 50 favorites. I really can't thank you all enough for that. That said, I'd always like to try and aim for 120 *winkwinknudgenudge*. And, as I said, there is a happy ending to this story. And Sherlock punches his father in the face. I had _fun_ writing that scene... :) I'm tentatively thinking about writing a sequel, but I'm going to go with whatever you guys think I should do and play it by ear. Yet another reason to leave me some feedback. ;) So anyways, before I shut the heck up and let you read the chapter, I just want to say thank you one last time. Well, that and enjoy the ending. ^-^  
><strong>

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><p><em>Sherlock gave his elder sibling a completely neutral look from blue eyes were disturbingly blank as he tried his best to repress everything storming through his head and Mycroft couldn't help but think that his little brother looked more robot than human. It hurt to watch. He remembered when Sherlock was little and smiled at everything, remembered teaching him what he knew about deduction and people-reading, remembered the way he would laugh when Mycroft came to visit and ranted about all the idiots he encountered on a daily basis. Now his little brother stared back at him as though he would like nothing more than to never feel anything again.<em>

_How had this happened? How had he _let _this happen? He felt guilt wash over him as he realized that he'd been letting his brother down every day for nine years. He'd gone through unimaginable pain with no recourse. And Mycroft, the older brother, the only person who could top Sherlock for intelligence, the one who was supposed to be taking care of him- had done nothing. The elder Holmes sighed silently._

_"You didn't listen." His brother's sharp voice cut him off at the pass. "I tried to tell you, and you didn't listen to me." _

_"No, I didn't." Mycroft didn't try to deny what his brother had said. It would have been pointless. "Even though I should have. And I apologize for that." Sherlock slumped back in the hospital bed, weariness overtaking him. There were a thousand thoughts running through his head and he didn't have the words for any of them, not right now. He only cared about two things._

_"Where's Beck? How is she?" _

_"In a different room," Mycroft answered quietly. "She has two fractured ribs and a broken right collarbone but she's going to make a full recovery." Well, that was one of the two things down. Now for the other. _

_"Have they arrested him?" His older brother nodded. "Good," Sherlock said coldly, blue eyes like steel. Then that look faded and a flicker of fear worked its way through before that was quickly suppressed. "Where am I going to go?" Mycroft sighed again._

_"There's a boarding school in north London that you can stay at during the school year. On break you can stay with me." Now it was anger's turn in the parade of emotions to spark through Sherlock's eyes. _

_"I don't want to go to some bloody boarding school!" he yelled. "It'll be full of idiots and they'll just make fun of me for being a freak!" Mycroft would have been lying to say that he hadn't expected that reaction, but he forced down his emotions. There was no other option, if there were Mycroft would happily have taken it. But there wasn't. Sherlock's yelling had attracted the doctor, who administered a mild sedative to calm him down and then commanded Mycroft to leave the boy to sleep. The last thing Mycroft saw before his brother's blue eyes closed was betrayal that felt like a stab in the gut._

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><p><em>It was another week before either child was permitted to leave their hospital bed, but once permission was granted they were both out the door. They were practically joined at the hip until they were both discharged under strict orders to be taken well care of and not do anything stupid.<em>

_"Now why would we do a silly thing like that?" Beck remarked to her friend. _

_"Do you mean a silly thing like something stupid or a silly thing like listen to them?" Sherlock responded with a hint of a suppressed smile. They decided, however, that it was wisest to leave that particular question unanswered. Because of their injuries and Robert's upcoming trial, the Air Force delayed Richard's transfer until after everything had been resolved; the kids would get a few more months to see each other. _

_"I wish I could come with you," Sherlock told her quietly one day. "I don't want to stay in England any more." Since their discharge, Sherlock had gone back to Beck's house and continued to stay with her and her family, trying to delay boarding school as long as possible. Beck smiled slightly._

_"I dunno, Texas might be a little warm for your taste." Sherlock's lips twitched._

_"I think I could get used to it. I don't want to never see you again. But you can't stay." Beck sighed._

_"I wish you could come with us too, dude. I wish you weren't getting shipped off to some boarding school somewhere. But there's one thing I know for damned sure- we'll see each other again someday. It's just a question of when. But for now we can see each other all day, so what do you say we have some fun?" She gave him her best smile. He couldn't help but grin._

_"You want to do something stupid?"_

_"Well I wanna do something fun, it's really just a question of how much the two happen to overlap." They kept that attitude, acting as though nothing had ever gone wrong and their lives weren't about to change so drastically they couldn't even comprehend it. The trial came up quickly- the evidence was ample, to say the least, and between the testimonies of Sherlock, Beck, and Richard, Robert Holmes was found guilty after less than a day of deliberation. Twelve years in prison, to be served consecutively and with no possibility of getting out early. _

_"Good riddance," Richard muttered under his breath before turning to his daughter and the boy he considered his son and giving them both a hug. But Richard was still in the Air Force, and was still getting transferred. It came a couple of weeks after the close of the trial. Their stuff had been sent ahead of them and now it was time for Beck and her family to return to the U.S. Sherlock waited for them at the airport, Mycroft lingering behind, and gave his best friend one last hug._

_"I'll miss you. I still wish I could go along." Beck smiled, doing her best not to cry._

_"Hey, paleontologists travel a lot, you know. I'll be back one day. Remember what I said? We _will _see each other again someday. I swear that on my life. I'd swear it on my family's honor but hey, we all know that ain't worth much." She winked at him and then grew serious again. "But I promise, we will. One day." Sherlock gave her a sad smile._

_"I don't know, I'd say your family's honor is worth quite a bit. And I promise we will too, no matter how long it takes." Beck blinked rapidly, but then said,_

_"Hey, let's be happy, okay? I don't want to remember us being sad. You be happy, because life ain't worth much if you haven't got anything to live it for." And with that, and her best smile, Beck was called onto the plane and the two best friends vanished from each other's sight for twelve long years._

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><p>Sherlock stopped walking once he reached the riverbank. It was still gray and rainy, and there was next to no one out besides him and his thoughts, so strong they seemed to be an entity themselves. He thought over that request in his head and wondered to himself if he'd succeeded or not. He wondered if Beck even remembered that request, and wondered if she'd lived it herself. His sigh was simultaneously expansive and silent as he stared at the rushing river, gazing down towards the spot where Thomas Howard's body had been thrown and where his whole past had begun to merge with his present. And found himself thinking that, hard as hell though all of it had been, in the end he wouldn't trade it for the world. Because now he had his friend back.<p>

He pulled out his phone and texted Beck, telling her to meet him at Baker Street, then pulled something out of the pocket of his coat, flipping it over lightly in his hand. It was a small chunk of the cast they'd put on his after the last fight that broke off when they were removing it. On impulse, he'd grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket, carrying it around with him ever since like some kind of totem. He looked at it thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. Twelve years he'd carried it around every day. Those years had been hard, some of them worse than others. Now he smiled broadly, pulled back his arm, and threw it into the River Thames.

And damn, did it feel good.

Beck was waiting for him when he got back to Baker Street, she and John drinking coffee and arguing over some aspect of anatomy. Sherlock bounded up the stairs and announced his opinion (made up on the fly, but of course they didn't have to know that- though of course they probably did) before turning to Beck.

"Do you remember when you were about to leave and you asked me to be happy?" She nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I sure do."

"Well it took me a while. But I just thought you'd like to know I am. What was it you said? That life isn't worth much-"

"- if you haven't got anything to live for," Beck finished with a smile.

"Well I've found something to live for. I just wanted to make sure you knew that. Whatever happened in the past doesn't affect us anymore. So take your own advice, and be happy." Beck laughed.

"Oh, trust me brother, I sure am happy right now. And I'm glad you are too. And you know, I was right about something else- I told you we'd see each other again someday." Sherlock's lips twitched as they always did when he was trying his best not to smile.

"I don't know why I ever doubted you."

"I don't either," John cut in, winking in Beck's direction. "Not that it's any of my business, but what is it that you've found?" The suppressed smile got just that much wider as Sherlock looked John straight in the eye.

"A family." And not just a family- he'd found peace too, something that he hadn't had for a long, long time. It had been twenty-eight years of trial after trial, but for the first time since he was seven years old, Sherlock Holmes could finally say that he was happy. There was just one little matter left to deal with... He looked to his two best friends.

"I think it's time to pick a fight, don't you?"

"Are you sure you want to do this now?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied forcefully. His mind was set and there was nothing that was going to change it. "I decided a long time ago that I was going to stop being afraid of him. It's time to start keeping that up. I just have one or two more people to call first."

* * *

><p>The message was simple: <em>Baker Street, twelve o' clock, and this is your only chance.<em> But Sherlock knew his father would take the bait. Arrogance was something of a family trait. And take the bait he did, only to discover that this time his son wasn't alone. Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, John on one side and Beck on the other, while Mycroft stood in the kitchen doorway and Lestrade stepped up to block the exit after Robert had gone through, leaning casually against the door frame. Sherlock's father looked around at the gathering before glaring at his younger son.

"Couldn't face me on your own, eh?" Sherlock shrugged, unaffected by his father's insult.

"I don't need to this time, you see. You got me alone when I was a child. I'm not alone anymore." The sneer vanished from Robert's face, replaced by anger.

"You owe me, boy."

"Put it on his bill," John cut in sharply. "And don't tell me to stay out of this because I won't."

"He ain't lying," Beck added lightly. "He's stubborn like that."

"But, down to business," Sherlock continued. "I don't owe you a single damn thing and I never want to see you again. I don't consider you my father and as such I feel no need to either respect or fear you and I know you'll probably ignore all of this so let me just make this last part very, very clear- if you ever come near me again, if you ever threaten somebody I care about, if you even _think_ of laying a hand on me or anyone around me ever again, there is no place in the world you can go where I will not find you and send you back to prison where you belong." His father's eyes narrowed.

"And how exactly do you expect to back up that threat of yours, boy?" It was John's turn.

"Well, let's see, there are five of us and one of you for starters, so the numbers aren't exactly on your side. And for seconds, two of these five are a Detective Inspector and the man who runs most of Britain." From his post in the kitchen doorway, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"'Most' of Britain, John? Don't offend me. Still," he conceded, "the fact remains."

"You see, buddy," Lestrade continued from behind him, "you're just plain hosed no matter which way you cut it." He narrowed his eyes as Robert took a step towards him. "Oh, please, give me something to arrest you for. I just caught a murderer this morning and I'm itching to keep up my streak."

"So," Sherlock picked up where Lestrade left off. His father wheeled to face him, now visibly angry. "Now that all that's been said, feel free to leave any time you like."

"Or, alternatively, we could show you out ourselves," Beck finished with her biggest smile. Robert yelled wordlessly and lunged at her, only to be blocked by Sherlock, who shoved him away and then pulled his fist back, connecting it so solidly with the older man's face that he went spinning onto the floor. Sherlock looked down at him for a second, breathing heavily, and then laughed.

"Well, that felt good. But I think I might have broken a finger."

* * *

><p>It was another month before Seth Russell was due to come to trial for child abuse, assault, and the murder of Thomas Howard. Sherlock, as was his custom, stayed as far away from the courtroom as possible but John found himself a seat among the spectators. Lestrade and Beck were both due to testify and there was a litany of forensic evidence present, but what really clinched the deal was Seth's infuriated confession to Lestrade that he'd killed Howard and thrown his body in the Thames to make it look like a drowning.<p>

"Bloody bastard was going to ruin my life," he kept insisting. John snorted softly and texted Beck, who was down below. _It's never their fault, is it?_ She glanced his direction and rolled her eyes. The jury was done with their deliberation before lunch had gotten cold on the second day. Guilty on all counts, and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. He, Beck, and Lestrade went back to Baker Street to celebrate their victory.

"So Beck, any idea when your dig is going to be done?" Lestrade asked. Beck smiled widely.

"Well, several more summers, at the very least."

"Oh, so you're going to stick around then?" John commented. He'd pulled out his laptop and was hard at work on his newest blog post. Sherlock was sitting upside down on the couch, head where his feet should be, playing with a ball made out of nothing but rubber bands. He looked to his friend curiously.

"There's something you're not telling us," he accused. Her smile, if it was possible, got even broader.

"Indeed there is. This site's got damn near everything I study in it somewhere so I've decided it's the perfect thing for my project."

"What project?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, I've been a lazy paleontologist and haven't gotten my PhD yet so I figured I'd use this site to work on my dissertation. I'm working on it with the University of London. Which means that I'm gonna be staying for a while yet." She laughed. "So I'm gonna be underfoot for at least the next two years." She arched an eyebrow. "I hope none of y'all mind?"

"Not a bit, I should think," John replied, smiling back. Lestrade just grinned, and Sherlock- to show his pleasure- tossed his rubber band ball at her. There was a dull thwacking sound.

"OW! Shit, man, that was my head!" Sherlock finally let his smile out.

"Well I can't have done too much damage then."

"Oh, so you want to get this started, eh? _You're on_." She seized the offending item and lobbed it towards Sherlock, who performed a remarkably acrobatic flip off the couch to avoid taking it to a very personal region. Soon both had staked out a side of the sitting room and an free-for-all war began, shields, trash talk, and all. Lestrade was laughing so hard he was pounding on the table, Sherlock and Beck were diving behind the furniture and throwing the ball at one another, John was typing on his laptop and ducking the occasional projectile, and despite her most recent protestation, Mrs. Hudson was downstairs making tea. All in all, things were mighty relaxed at Baker Street.


End file.
